


We, the Monsters

by neko_fish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: All Kinds of Character Deaths, Allison is not an Argent, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Dark, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:23:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 59,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neko_fish/pseuds/neko_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a post-Day Zero world where Strains and Humans and everything in between are at odds with one another, Derek's managed to survive on his own for years now. Never putting names to faces, never getting attached - that's just the way he prefers it. </p><p>Then the boy gets thrown into his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story Notes: To clear up any misunderstandings around the usage of the word 'Strain', a Strain can refer to one who has a strain or the instinct within (think spirit animals). 
> 
> Here, have a sample sentence: Strains have strains in their blood and can hear their Strains inside them. 
> 
> And as for Pure Strains vs New Strains, think Alpha (full wolf) vs Beta forms. (The Pure Strain is the dominant trait if you feel like drawing out Punnett squares.)
> 
> Purgers are pretty much hunters but without a code.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Strain in him howls mournfully at the memories.

Trudging his way through the forest towards the neighbouring village, he tilts his head up and gives the air a wary sniff. From his side, the large wolf-grey dog with sharp amber eyes and a thick coat lifts her head and does the same. Having rescued the dog from the cruel hands of village children years ago, she’s been by his side ever since. Satisfied with what her nose tells her, the dog looks up at him and swings her tail once as confirmation.

The dog.

That’s what he calls her, his most faithful and only companion.

The dog.

She doesn’t have a name and never will because neither of them are optimistic enough to think that she’ll live a very long life, and he doesn’t want to have to add another name to his already extensive list of all those he’s lost.

As they continue trekking through the forest, approaching the clearing he agreed to meet the villagers in, there’s a slight shift in the air. It’s not a threatening scent, but it’s new. He stiffens and clutches at the sleeves of his jacket, mentally sifting through all the possible reasons for this unexpected meeting.

Living in the forest far away from Dead Zones—places with large, desecrated structures where people once lived but are now inhabited by rabid animals and Strains—and open roads, he resides in a small cabin with ample distance between himself and the nearest villages, which are inhabited predominately by Humans and New Humans (those with only some strain in their blood. They lack many if not all of the benefits that Strains have as well as the privileged status Humans have. The worst of both worlds, he thinks).

For the last few years, he’s managed on his own by hunting and selling and trading the extras to the villagers. On occasion, he’s had to act as hired protection, chasing out or killing unwanted predators and intruders, but it’s rare for them to be bothered, given how deep in the forest and isolated they are. Although tense and shaky at best, they have an unspoken agreement between them: he’ll provide them with his services so long as they leave him alone.

Neither party acknowledge just how heavily the villages rely on him for food and safety.

He prefers it that way.

The forest is silent and cold, and it’s been this way for as long as he can remember. The birds refuse to sing their songs, having learnt that silence usually keeps them alive for longer, and the deer run at the slightest hint of a threat. It wasn’t always like this though, he remembers his grandmother telling him once.

It wasn’t like this before Day Zero.

Day Zero.

The day the world ended.

He’s not sure how many days or years it’s been since Day Zero. He hadn’t been born yet when it happened, and it’s not something he cares to calculate or keep track of because he has his own Day Zero.  

 _His_ Day Zero took place six years ago.

The Strain in him howls mournfully at the memories.

He takes a deep breath and calms himself down, willing his eyes to return to their usual grey-green and his claws to retract. That’s the problem with being a Pure Strain—Strains that can take on both a humanoid and a full Strain form, unlike New Strains which are only able to take on humanoid Strain forms—it made him more in tune with his instincts. His entire family had pure wolf strains in their blood, and like all those with pure strains, they were all born with it. No one quite knows when it first started, but it’s been there for so long that they’ve never questioned it.

They’re wolf Strains.

 _Were_.

It just is.

_Was._

Refusing to dwell on the memories any longer, he focuses on the clearing up ahead. He can hear their heartbeats through the trees. There are three of them, but one stands out from the rest. It’s young and loud and beating out of control.

The dog raises her hackles in alarm.

They can both smell blood.

Stepping around the last tree, he gets a clear view of the clearing. There are two men standing there; they smell of sour nervousness and uncertainty. But they try to stand tall, their backs straight with confidence they don’t possess. They’ve been taught to never show weakness to Strains.

Whoever thought the idea up was an idiot.

There are so many ways he can sense their fear and anxiety. He can smell it in the air, see it in their eyes, and hear it in their heartbeats. His mere presence causes so much distress in them, it makes his Strain rumble in amusement.

The scent of blood’s not coming from either of the men though. It’s coming from the boy standing between them. Young and slender, the boy watches him with large brown eyes and a rope leash attached to his neck. There are bruises on his face and cuts running down his limbs. He can smell more blood from underneath the boy’s tattered rags and the rough ropes they used to tie his arms and legs together. The boy’s feet are equally cut up and bare. If he ever had shoes, the villagers must’ve taken them away. That doesn’t surprise him. Shoes are always a good commodity to have and always in demand, regardless of quality and size.

The dog hardly pays any attention to the boy and directs her growls to the men, daring them to try anything underhanded.

Unimpressed, he arches an eyebrow at them expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

Were they hoping to trade the boy for goods, or did they just want him gone and taken care of?

Derek runs his eyes over the boy again. The ropes don’t smell of wolfsbane or anything magical, so if the boy was a Strain, he would’ve escaped by now. He wonders what the boy’s crime is to be brought out here. Maybe he’s just a thief they caught, or a traveler who wandered too close and trespassed unwittingly.

Crossing his arms, he continues to wait for an explanation.

He isn’t given one.

The men don’t even bother trying to barter.

It probably doesn’t cross their minds to kill two birds with one stone. Or perhaps they’re just unwilling to spend more time talking to a Strain than they absolutely have to. In the villages, despite their unspoken agreement, they avoid openly interacting with him in fear of attracting the attention of Humanists—Purgers. If Purgers were to get the idea that they were Strain sympathizers, no one would be spared.

With no negotiations and minimal interaction, the two of them quickly pay for the meat and tell him to dispose of the boy however he saw fit.

(Of course they make the Strain do all the dirty work.)

Accepting their payment of fruits, vegetables and tools, he tosses them the sack of preserved meat and watches them leave.

“Good riddance,” he hears one of the men mutter.

Good riddance.

That means they were pleased with the transaction—glad to be free of the boy.

He wonders what this boy with the large brown eyes had done that made it necessary for him to be disposed of by a Strain.

Left alone with the boy, he takes a step closer and inspects him again. The boy returns his stare with his own frightened gaze. Definitely not a Strain, or at least not one he’s familiar with. There are new strains emerging all the time. Some take on the form of New Strains, some of New Humans, and some just drive the person mad.

Derek wants to roll his eyes and snort. He picks up his payment and toys with the idea of returning home and just leaving the boy here, helpless and alone. A child would never survive out here, especially not tied up. There’s a soft shuffling sound and he and the dog both look at the boy, who’s fiddling with the ropes wrapped around his wrists. His brows are knit in concentration and there’s blood dripping down his hands from the poorly made rope rubbing against his skin.

He actually rolls his eyes this time and steps forward.

The boy freezes and stares at him, heart hammering loudly away in his chest.

In one smooth movement, he pulls out a knife from his belt and slices through the ropes, then kneels down and down the same with the ones around the boy’s legs. When he looks up, he’s surprised by the sight of the boy smiling in disbelief at him—the frenzied, fearful beating of his heart suddenly…hopeful?

His eyebrows furrow in confusion but those brown eyes merely continue watching him, the fear being replaced by anticipation and amazement. It makes Derek uncomfortable to be shown so much appreciation for nothing. The boy must’ve been convinced that he would die out here.

(And he will—it just won’t be by Derek’s hands.)

Without another word, he turns around and leaves the clearing, the dog trotting happily after him, relaxed now that the villagers have gone. He hears the boy’s heartbeat speed up and there’s the loud noise of someone crashing through branches and leaves. Turning around with an annoyed scowl, he can’t help but stare in disbelief when he sees the boy standing there, sheepish. The rope leash on his neck had somehow gotten caught on the branches of a nearby tree and the boy’s snarling at it, trying to loosen it with his bloodied, shaking hands.

How did this child ever manage to survive until now with his clear lack of instincts and skills?

Again, Derek takes a moment to consider the pros and cons of just turning around and leaving. If he leaves now, he won’t have to worry about being followed back to his cabin by the boy, and the smell of blood and panic will attract trouble from predators soon enough. He looks down at the dog and she returns his gaze, ready to support him no matter what he decision he makes.

The first time he saw the dog, he had thought about naming her Laura (strong, beautiful, unshakeable Laura), but that hurt too much—especially knowing that he’ll lose her sooner rather than later.

He doesn’t know why he does it, but he takes out the knife again and holds the rope leash taut. The boy’s hand flies up and stops him by the arm. Derek arches an eyebrow and looks from the hand on his arm, to the boy, back to the hand, then back to the boy; a silent but clear threat. The boy pulls his lips taut and holds his hands up in surrender.

Satisfied, he returns his attention to the rope. Although unresisting, the boy’s breathing grows shallow and his heart rate spikes even higher when the knife inches closer to his throat. Baffled by the unfounded and alarming reaction, Derek frowns and withdraws his hand and knife, watching the boy struggle for air, soundless except for his wheezing.

Unsure of what to do, he sheaths his knife and starts undoing the knots with his hands instead, occasionally bringing out his claws to cut through particularly stubborn strands. The entire time, he’s tempted to comfort the boy and to tell him to just breathe. But he refrains because the boy might get the wrong idea and actually think that Derek cares about his well-being or something (and that’s the last thing he needs).

When the rope comes undone, he can see a thin line running across the boy’s pale neck, underneath the angry, red burns from the leash. It’s an older scar. That explains the panic attack, at least. Is this why the boy hasn’t uttered a single word the entire time? Did someone try to cut through his voice box? Did he know too much and needed to be silenced? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s heard of something like this happening. With the tension between Purgers, Humans, New Humans, and Strains, these kinds of practices are hardly uncommon.

There are times when he likes to think that life before Day Zero was better than this and they’ve just temporarily regressed. He recalls his grandmother’s stories about a land teeming with people of all shapes and sizes, from all cultures and backgrounds. She had only been a girl when Day Zero took place, but the stories she told were always so vivid and colourful, he couldn’t help but be envious of her for getting to see these things first-hand. He and his siblings used to sit around her and listen to tales of buildings stocked with all kinds of food—more food than anyone could ever need, and strangers who would greet each other without suspicion and weapons.

Maybe they’ll return to that again one day, he muses, unconvinced.

He turns his attention back to the boy, silently chiding himself for how getting so distracted by his own thoughts.

The boy is breathing normally again, taking in deep, measured breathes as he stares at the rope on the ground. He rubs his neck tentatively, fingers running over the scar out of habit rather than pain. Then he looks up at Derek and shoots him a grateful smile which catches him off guard because it hadn’t been his intention to help the boy or to give him any hope of survival in any way.

Pointing towards the forest, he gestures with his head for the boy to leave. He doesn’t know if they speak the same language, but the message he’s sending is clear. But instead of fleeing, the boy takes a step towards him, his big doe eyes bright and imploring.

He arches a brow and points again.

What exactly is this boy expecting from him? Just because he didn’t kill the boy doesn’t mean he’s going to take him in. The dog’s all he needs for companionship and warmth; she’s as close to pack as anyone’s gotten since Laura left him alone.

Derek glances down at the dog. She looks from him to the boy, waiting for his signal to drive the boy off into the woods and out of their lives. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t take her up on her silent offer. It’s stupid and reckless, but instead of chasing the boy away, he merely scowls, shoves his free hand into the pocket of his jeans and turns around and marches back the way he came.

The boy seems to have taken his silence as consent of some kind because the entire way back to the cabin, he’s there, fumbling around behind them, scrambling through thick leaves and branches, trying desperately to keep them in sight. He’s loud and clumsy, and so very human in his gracelessness.

The dog lets out a lazy yawn as she trots next to him. They’re walking at what they consider their ‘easy pace’. He remains indifferent to their follower while her mouth is open in silent laughter, listening to sound of branches snapping from behind.

Neither of them turn back even once to check on the boy.

\--

When they get back to the cabin, he’s begrudgingly impressed when the boy stumbles out of the trees and into the small clearing, arms flailing at phantom branches and insects. He stops abruptly when he realizes they’re no longer in the thick of the woods. Now he looks lost and bewildered, but pleased with himself and at the sight of the cabin. Turning to Derek with his hands on his waist and panting, he smiles again.

And again, Derek doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t understand how the boy can still smile when he reeks of pain and fear.

(He doesn’t understand how the boy can still smile when Derek lost the ability to do so, so many years ago.)

When he looks down and takes everything in, a pang of guilt hits him square in the gut at the sight before him. The boy’s feet have been bloodied from running around without shoes, driven by nothing but sheer tenacity. His calves have been cut up by sharp bushes and undergrowth, and his knees scraped from falls and tumbles. The blood on his arms have mostly dried and the cuts on his wrists look raw and painful. If the boy’s a Strain or New Human, he’s not one with any enhanced healing capabilities.

The guilt doesn’t last very long when he remembers that the boy was supposed to have been left for dead out there. But at the same time, now that the boy’s made it all the way to his cabin, he can’t very well just let him die outside; that would attract unwanted animals and attention.

Instructing the dog to keep an eye on their unwelcomed guest, he goes inside to carelessly toss the villagers’ payment onto the floor in a corner and sets about looking for the medical kit. It’s not very well-stocked by any means since he’s only ever had to use it on the dog, but it’s still better than nothing.

The boy’s picking off flecks of dried blood off his arm while keeping one eye on the dog when Derek returns outside. He snaps to attention, turning his head so fast, his neck cracks and pops from the sudden movement. He looks more alert and wary now, eyeing the kit questioningly.

Derek rolls his eyes because the boy’s already made the poor decision of following a Strain home and _now_ he’s hesitating? Impatient, he motions for the boy to approach.

After a moment of uncertainty, the boy does as he’s told.

Or, at least he tries.

With the adrenaline wearing off, the boy winces and blinks back tears as he tries to tiptoe over to the cabin, each step pressing dirt and grime into the fresh cuts on his feet. Despite the pain, he stubbornly continues to advance, one agonising step at a time. Perhaps this is how he’s managed to not get himself killed so far. Where he’s lacking in instinct and skills, he makes up for in his willingness to go through hell and back just to stay alive.

After a few more steps, Derek can’t stand it anymore and hoists him up by the back of his rags with one hand and carries him inside. The dog follows and sits herself by the door, watching him while keeping an ear open for intruders outside.

It should alarm him how light the boy is, but they live in hard times and not everyone can hunt and trade to maintain a diet as balanced as his. He props the boy up onto the table and begin inspecting the wounds. Most of them are shallow, superficial, but if any of them get infected, that would just lead to a mess he has no intention or means of dealing with.

He asks if the boy understands the words he’s saying and gets a nod in response. Pleased that they’re able to at least communicate verbally, however one-sidedly, he tells the boy to brace himself for the pain because the wounds need to be cleaned and disinfected.

The boy nods again and gives a weak smile. Derek doesn’t know why the boy even bothers trying to smile at the person who led him through the woods which led to these cuts in the first place. He shrugs it off though, not wanting to think about it too much, and gets to work. Brown eyes watch him intently as he starts cleaning and disinfecting the cuts, taking in and memorizing the procedure (or to ensure he’s doing it right, he suspects).

His grip on the boy’s foot remains firm, unrelenting when the boy flinches and hisses at the burning sensation of cuts being disinfected. The smell of pain is rolling off him in waves and he’s mouthing a torrent of profanities without a sound. Ignoring this, Derek continues pulling splinters and dirt out of the cuts and washing it down with water and disinfectant. Neither of them have a choice but to bull through it now.

Half way through the second foot, the boy’s eyes roll up and he passes out, giving in to the pain and exhaustion.

Derek huffs in annoyance and continues his work. At least there won’t be any more flinching and tears to distract him. Every now and then, he would pause in his work to listen to the boy’s heartbeat if only to make sure he’s still breathing and alive.

\--

It takes longer and more medical supplies than he had expected. After he finally finishes with the boy’s limbs, he has to cut away the rags because he can smell blood from underneath. There are bruises and welts on the boy’s front and back. Some are new, probably caused by the villagers, but most of them have already healed and turned into scars; nothing but raised, discoloured skin to remind the boy of the trials he’s faced to survive this long.

When he finishes cleaning and bandaging the last of the wounds, he steps back and wonders what he should do with the boy. His original plan had been to release the boy and let him run off and then continue on with his day, but now, he can’t very well leave him out in the woods smelling of pain and blood—not after all his hard work.  

The dog watches him curiously as he lifts the boy and puts him down on the bear skin rug on the floor by the fireplace. It’s where he normally sleeps during winter nights, with the dog curled up next to him. She’s wondering why he did what he did, and he shrugs because he doesn’t know the answer to her question.

(But that’s a lie, because he does know.

He knows exactly why he did it.

It’s because he’s afraid that the wind will carry the boy’s helpless screams all the way to his cabins.

He’s afraid of finding the boy’s broken and mutilated body in the woods.

He’s afraid that instead of seeing those large brown eyes, he’ll see Laura’s cold, blank ones staring at him from the ground, and her blue, blue lips moving and calling his name without ever making a sound.)

Heaving a sigh, he tells the dog to stay on guard while he goes to check on the traps he set yesterday. If he doesn’t retrieve the kill, the meat will spoil and rot. And while he’s more than capable of hunting with his teeth and claws, he prefers to remain as inconspicuous as possible. There’s no need to make it known to Purgers that there’s a Strain in the area. The dog gives him a huff but doesn’t move from her position from the door as he leaves, ruffling her fur on the way out.

It doesn’t take him long to do his rounds, knowing the surrounding area better than his own cabin. He manages to snare four rabbits, one of which has already been gnawed on and torn apart by scavengers, but no big game today. Resetting the traps, he returns to the cabin with the kills. There’s no real need for big game yet. When the situation calls for it, he’ll hunt. But until then, he’ll leave his catches to nature. He still has a large supply of preserved meat and can bring that to the village to trade if he’s ever in need of supplies and greens.

With the increase in rogue animals and Strains, it’s become near impossible to keep livestock around villages. Not only is the chance of livestock actually reaching maturity slim to none, but the risk of bringing in unknown predators to the village far outweighs the benefit of having a _chance_ to taste domesticated meat.

His Strain shuffles with dissatisfaction, wishing he would just give in to the instinct and hunt.

\--

The dog greets him with a thumping tail when she sees him through the doorway. The boy’s still asleep, right where he left him, completely oblivious to the world.

Derek sniffs at the air. He can’t be bothered to walk all the way over to make sure the boy's wounds haven’t opened up. Satisfied, he brings the rabbits over to the porch and sits down and begins skinning them with his knife. The furs are always worth something to the villagers. They turn the pelts into blankets and overcoats to help them get through the harsh winters that sweep through the lands, freezing everything in its path.

He turns and glances towards the hearth, wondering how much food he should prepare for the evening. Although he doesn’t want to feed the boy, the sooner he recovers, the sooner he’ll leave, and then Derek can finally return to his old routine. With that decided, he leaves the rabbits and their pelts on the porch and goes to retrieve water from the stream nearby.

The water tastes of metals and other substances he can’t name—it always has, as far as he’s concerned. But once upon a time, according to Uncle Peter, who had heard from _his_ father, water was completely clear and tasted sweet and fresh.

Derek can’t imagine crystal clear water, let alone sweet and fresh tasting clear water—whatever ‘fresh’ is supposed to taste like.

Washing the blood off his hands and knife, he fills two large pails with water and carries them inside without breaking a sweat. He refills the dog’s dish, and she takes a few delicate laps, just enough to wet her mouth as a sign of appreciation and lies back down to continue watching him work.

Lighting a small fire in the hearth, he hangs up a pot of water over it, careful not to disturb the sleeping boy. He misses the stove they used to have when he was a child. It was just a large metal box with four openings on the top that they managed to drag out from a building on the outskirts of the closest Dead Zone. It held kindle and fire in its belly and allowed them to bake and cook multiple things at once. As a child, he used to turn the strange, now deformed knobs on the box, letting his imagination run wild, trying to imagine how the box could’ve ever heated itself up without kindle the way his grandmother told him it supposedly did.

After preparing one of the rabbits, he rummages through the things the villagers had given him and pulls out stalks of vegetables and leafy plants and mushrooms. Chopping them into small pieces, he tosses them into the boiling water. The stew won’t be anything amazing, but he never uses spices or accepts them as payment for his services, not when they could so easily be contaminated and poisoned, and their scent overpowered.

He hasn’t eaten properly seasoned food since his Day Zero.

Not even with Laura.

Outside, the sun’s already starting to set. It’s the middle of fall and the sun refuses to remain in the sky any longer than it has to. He goes outside and cleans up any traces of blood either the boy or the rabbits made. Getting up in the middle of the night to chase off hungry predators isn’t something he wants to have to do.

Once he’s satisfied with everything, he returns inside and takes the pot off the fire and pours himself a bowl of rabbit stew. He tosses the dog one of the rabbits and watches her tear at it hungrily. In the back of his mind, he tells himself that he doesn’t need to go through the trouble of boiling water and chopping up vegetables. He could eat the rabbit raw too. But then he would see his mother’s disapproving face as she tells him that they’re Strains, not animals, and quickly erases the idea from his head, guilty and ashamed.

He puts a lid on the put and leaves the other half of the stew either for the boy or for breakfast. It’ll be for whoever woke up first, really. After he’s finished eating, he moves to sit by the fireplace, making sure that there’s some distance between him and the boy and curls up. He brings out his grandmother’s journal containing her childhood recollections. She had always been an avid writer and her journal was one of the few things he managed to save from his Day Zero. He can recite all the entries verbatim, but he loves the sensation of weathered pages on his fingers and seeing the elegant script of his grandmother running across the page. Having long since gotten bored with reading the entries in order, he flips to a random page and starts reading.

Not many people are familiar with letters anymore—at least not in the villages he’s encountered; maybe it’s different elsewhere. Although the villagers, or those capable of speech, can communicate verbally, the literacy rate plummeted with the need to survive overshadowing the need to read and write. His grandparents and parents had insisted on them learning. Survival wasn’t an issue for them, not in the same way it was for Humans and New Humans.

The dog, having finished her dinner, pads over and curls up at his feet as he reads about buildings that used to house books rather than people, about a time when just about everyone, the old and young alike, was well-versed in letters. People would just sit in this building and read, travelling off to distant worlds and timelines without ever leaving the place.

He can’t even begin to imagine what being in such a building would be like.

But he still closes his eyes and tries.

\--

In the morning, he opens his eyes just as sunlight starts streaming through the opened windows. He stiffens at first, tense and alert at the unfamiliar smell in the cabin, but then he looks over and remembers the events that took place yesterday. The boy’s still sound asleep; he’s somehow rolled towards the edge of the rug with his limbs stretched in impossible angles.

He sighs.

The very thought of having to deal with the child makes him want to go back to sleep. Instead, he drags himself onto his feet and goes on his usual morning run over to the stream to wake himself up. The dog’s sitting by the door when he returns, patiently waiting for him. He glances over at the leftover stew and then at the bandaged figure on his floor. Promising to be back in a little while, he pulls a shirt on and grabs the remaining rabbit along with two of the pelts from yesterday and makes his way to the closest village.

The pelts haven’t been properly prepared yet, but the villagers know how to do it. He just wants to get in and out before all the villagers are awake, especially the children. Without any of the learnt restraint the adults show around him, the children were often the cruelest of the villagers, taking turns and daring each other to taunt and harass him with spiteful words and rocks. Sometimes, they would venture beyond the village walls and into the forest in search of him and his dog in hopes of catching them off guard.

Both his actions and inactions only seemed to further egg them on.

Their hatred towards him is unwarranted, but it’s all the children know and what they learnt. They’re encouraged by their parents to fear and hate all Strains, even if it’s a Strain who supplies the village with meat and safety. At the end of the day, he chalks it up to their lack of knowledge and education.

An unlearned man is a dangerous man, his father used to tell him, turning to superstition and false beliefs instead of facts and logic, they’re best avoided. Never interact with those who spit thrice on the floor at the mere mention of Strains; it is the sign of someone who’s given in to superstitions.

Purgers will spit thrice at the mention of Strains.

Some of the village children have started to spit thrice on the floor whenever they see him approaching.

He knows he won’t be able to stay for much longer.

Entering the village, he walks through the gates without so much as a nod to the guards. They couldn’t stop him from entering even if they tried, not without access to wolfsbane or mountain ash. Their sturdy village walls provided nothing but a false sense of security for those residing inside.

The village is mostly quiet save for the sound of adults getting ready to start another day of work. There are men pulling wooden carts fitted with rubber tires about, slowly making their way towards the fields. No one spares him a moment’s worth of attention.

The children are still asleep.

Derek makes his way to the baker, a stout middle-aged woman, a New Human who grew up in a large town that no longer exists. As far as villagers go, she’s one of his favourites and one of the few he’ll privately trade with. A smart business woman, she’s always treated him with respect and cordiality, openly disciplining her children when they were rude to her ‘best customer’.

To a small extent, he’s opened up to her, occasionally telling her about how well his trapping season has been and how much meat the village can expect for the winter. It’s already more than he tells anyone other than the village head. And in return, she tells him of any travelling merchants the village may be expecting in the near future.

He never brings the dog to the village. She would reluctantly follow him if he wanted her to, but he hates the idea of taking her anywhere near the people who showed her so little mercy before. He doesn’t understand why Strains are considered monsters when Humans can be so much worse. But then again, Strains aren’t any better—not when they’re the ones that took Laura away from him.

The baker smiles at him when he enters, wiping her hands clean on her flour covered apron. He never bothered learning her name, or the names of any of the villagers. Just like the dog, he doesn’t want to put a name to the faces he hates or the people he’ll inevitably leave behind.

They don’t talk very much today. He hands over the rabbit and the pelts in exchange for bread and medical supplies. The baker doesn’t question his sudden need for bandages and disinfectant, and he’s grateful for it. He gives her a nod of appreciation and takes his things and leaves.

\--

By the time he returns to the cabin, the morning fog has cleared and the ground is slowly starting to warm up. Any hope he has of the boy waking up and leaving is dashed when he reaches the cabin. There’s movement coming from inside, too loud and clumsy to be the dog’s. He makes his way to the doorway and arches a brow at the sight of the boy shuffling around with the dog trailing behind him, keeping a close eye on him and growling whenever he touches something he isn’t supposed to or knocks Derek’s few belongings over.

The dog turns to him and gives an exasperated huff, licking her nose, pleased to finally be relieved of her child-minding duties.

Seeing this as a chance to test the boy’s reactions, Derek lets his eyes bleed red and his fangs grow. It’s not his full Strain form, but it’s enough. He clears his throat and the boy jumps up with flailing arms, knocking over a chair, then he whirls around to face Derek, heart rate spiking in surprise.

He narrows his eyes and growls threateningly.

The boy rubs the back of his neck, trying to feign nonchalance. He looks embarrassed at having been caught but not guilty—startled, but not afraid of the Strain standing before him. And then he sees the sack in Derek’s clawed hands and his eyes immediately light up with curiosity. Derek changes back, completely floored by the boy’s lack of reaction. There isn’t a shred of self-preservation in this child; this child who can so easily turn his attention away from a Strain in favour of a _sack_.

Wanting to get back at the boy, however pettily, he leaves the sack on the table and goes to reheat the leftover stew. He can hear the boy shuffling next to the table, can feel him staring and eyeing the sack. The dog growls whenever she sees his long, twitchy fingers inching towards it. Soon, it turns into a game between them and Derek can’t help but shake his head at them.

When the stew’s poured and ready to be eaten, he decides to put the boy out of his misery and takes the bread out of the sack. Bright brown eyes immediately snap to attention and hone in on it hungrily. Derek tears the bread into halves and leaves it on the table in favour of finding meat scraps for the dog’s breakfast. When he returns, neither the bread nor the stew has been touched and the boy’s just standing there, eyeing the food.

He chucks the meat over to the dog and sits back down and begins to eat. When the boy still doesn’t move, Derek rolls his eyes and tosses one of the halves at him, watching him fumble around, trying to catch it. When the bread’s finally securely wrapped around his fingers, the boy stares at him in disbelief.

He’s a talker, Derek can tell. Even without his voice, his eyes and hand gestures manage to fire off a dozen words a second. Right now, all his silent words are telling Derek that he’s grateful and sore and unsure of what’s expected of him.

Derek grunts and gestures at the bowl of soup and tells him to sit down and eat before he changes his mind and feeds his share to the dog.

The boy’s hesitation disappears after that. He sits down on the other side of the table and begins wolfing everything down as though afraid Derek will carry out his threat. He stuffs his mouth so full of bread and stew that he has trouble closing it to chew properly. Derek can only watch in morbid fascination. It reminds him of the squirrel Cora found in the woods once. She brought it a handful of nuts just to see how many it could pack into its already bulging cheeks, and he chided her for taunting the creature, to which she retorted that thanks to her, it wouldn’t have to worry about starvation for the next few months.

He doesn’t realize he’s completely stopped eating until the boy pauses halfway through his meal and looks at him. Snapping out of his trance, he quickly takes a bite of bread and wrinkles his nose in feigned distaste at the boy’s table manners.

With his mouth still full, the boy grins.

The grin reminds him of days long past, back when the world still seemed like an alright place despite its lack of book houses and crystal clear water. It makes his chest constrict. It’s tight and painful, and it takes all his self-restraint to not flinch away at the brightness or to snarl at the hopefulness.

After breakfast, he tells the boy to sit still and not to wander about or touch anything. He suspects that it’ll be a difficult task for the child to accomplish, so he leaves the dog behind to watch him.

He has every plan to kick the kid out as soon as his feet heal, and he tells him so.

Narrowing his eyes, the boy huffs, his nose twitching in annoyance. He reaches out and takes one of Derek’s hand with surprising boldness. With a finger, he begins writing letters onto Derek’s palm. So shocked by the fact that the boy is familiar with letters, he almost misses the message.

 _N-O-T_ pause _K-I-D. S-T-I-L-E-S._

Derek furrows his brows in confusion. “What the hell is a stiles?”

The boy points to himself, giving a name to himself.

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles, he decides, is a thing that grows and festers under a person’s skin.

Eyes fluttering open, Derek lets out a resigned sigh when he feels a weight on top of him. Glancing down, he can see the boy, Stiles, half draped over him with his free arm wrapped around the dog. The dog opens an eye and sends him an understanding look but doesn’t bother trying to move. Instead, she turns and rests her head on Stiles’ chest, adding even more weight on top of him.

He could’ve sworn Stiles fell asleep at the opposite end of the room.

Derek stays for another couple of minute before gently pushing the boy off of him (he doesn’t know why he bothers. Stiles wakes up at the slightest sounds anyway). He gets up and stretches out his stiff limbs. Glancing back at the boy and the dog, it worries him how quickly he adjusted to the feeling of someone sleeping on him—so much so that it stopped waking him up after the fourth night. It doesn’t help that Stiles is wearing his clothes and smells like he _belongs_.

He still doesn’t know how Stiles manages to fly across the room, but he’s given up on trying to figure it out. Making his way to the doorway, ready to set off on his morning run to the stream to fetch fresh water, he turns around to see the dog slip out of Stiles’ grasp. She takes a moment to stretch and yawn before trotting over to join him.

They take off without a sound.

He’s not too worried about leaving Stiles alone. His runs don’t last that long and no one from the village would ever venture out so far, so early in the morning, and no Strain would so recklessly impede on another Strain’s territory. But more than that, he’s decided that he would be doing them both a favour by giving the boy plenty of privacy to do whatever he needs to do, first thing in the morning.

It’s been nearly two weeks since Stiles entered his life; two weeks since Stiles entered his cabin and fainted on his table; two weeks since Stiles smiled at Derek and put a name to himself. It’s been nearly two weeks and Stiles has shown no sign of leaving.

Derek stopped trying after the first week.

Every time he tried getting Stiles out with threats or brute force, he would look down at his bandaged legs and limp exaggeratedly towards the woods at an excruciating pace until Derek scowled and dragged him back inside, throwing the boy onto the bear rug he’s turned into his bed and leaving before he can see the triumphant grin on Stiles’ lips. It went on like this until Derek gave up altogether.

Running through the forest, ducking under low hanging branches covered in dying leaves and dodging overgrown brushes, he takes the longer path to the stream and tries to clear his mind to no avail. All he can think about is the boy who has so rudely barged into his life and apparently decided to stay there indefinitely.

Stiles, he decides, is a thing that grows and festers under a person’s skin.

It would be better if he cut it out and be rid of it once and for all before the infection spreads too deep, Derek thinks without any real resolve. Inside, he knows that it’s already too late and he doesn’t have the resolution to chase away his only human companion, not after so many years of solitude.

If the boy leaves, it will be on his own accord.

\--

When they finally arrive at the stream, they’re both feeling awake and energized from their run. He quickly strips down and washes the sweat off his body and the dirt out of his hair. The dog waits until he’s out of the water to move in to take a drink while he shucks his pants back on, not bothering with his shirt.

He really needs to get the kid off his mind, and he tells the dog so as he fills the pails up.

She huffs sympathetically, standing by his side. Just the other day, Stiles had managed to give her a belly rub—much to the boy’s delight and the dog’s exasperation.

Despite their time together, they’re still strangers, or, at best, temporary cohabiters. He’s not disillusioned enough to believe that they actually trust each other.

Derek can count everything he knows about Stiles on one hand. He knows his name—or, his supposed name because who names their kid ‘Stiles’? He knows that Stiles is from a larger town as opposed to a village. He has also seen first-hand the boy’s uncanny talent to knock things over while doing absolutely nothing. He knows that the boy’s familiar with letters and is strangely insistent on having balanced meat to vegetable ratios during meals—Stiles normally takes this into his own hands by throwing in extra vegetables into the pot when he thinks Derek’s not looking.

The boy’s bold and rash and stubborn when he wants to be. Derek has never seen a human so comfortable around a Strain and he doesn't understand it. Stiles hasn’t smelled of fear since the first day. Instead, he seems to derive amusement from bantering with Derek—which is another thing he noticed:

They argue.

_A lot._

A lot and usually over the most trivial things like the aforementioned balanced diet. He doesn’t even know how Stiles manages to bait him into long and ridiculous arguments when he’s the only one capable of voicing his side of the debate. Yesterday, they had an argument about Stiles going out with them to check their traps.

Stiles had pulled on the back of Derek’s shirt as he and the dog were about to go out. Pointing at himself, he fluttered his lashes and did his best ‘imploring’ look.

Derek said no, of course. There was no way he would allow Stiles wander anywhere until his legs healed and he got proper footwear. It was only common sense. The forest was full of dangerous plants and animals. The last thing he needed was to waste even more of his medical supplies on the kid.

Stiles crossed his arms and frowned.

Derek rolled his eyes and made a half-hearted promise to see if anyone in the village had spare shoes that they would be willing to trade, the next time he went.

Stiles huffed, still dissatisfied.

Sighing, Derek added that if that didn’t work out, then he would get Stiles a pair of shoes the next time a trader was nearby—but until then, Stiles was stuck at the cabin and forbidden to even _think_ about going near the forest.

When he saw that Stiles still didn’t look convinced, Derek added that if he ever caught the boy out in the woods without his permission, he would rip his throat out.

With his teeth.

Defeated, Stiles threw his arms up and retreated back into the cabin.

They’re on their way back, fallen leaves crunching loudly under their feet at every step, making it impossible to be stealthy. Even now, Derek can’t help but chuff to himself at the memory, still pleased at his little victory.

Whenever Stiles loses an argument, he throws his arms in the air and huffs loudly to show his displeasure. This usually causes to Derek preen, smug and victorious—smirking the faintest smirk to himself. On the other hand, whenever Derek loses an argument, he tells Stiles to shut up and the boy would burst into silent laughter.

It’s been years since he's had someone to banter with. Since Laura, no one has dared to look him in the eye let alone engage in a conversation with him. So caught up in his guilt, his grief, and just _surviving_ , he never had the time to realize how much he’s missed this kind of casual interaction until now. It makes him wish Stiles never entered his life nearly two weeks ago because now he can’t _un_ -realize it and he doesn’t know what he’ll do when he’s inevitably left alone again.

The dog seems to sense the sudden turn in his train of thoughts and brushes against him as she steps through the bushes and into the clearing where the cabin is. Derek can smell food cooking inside and faint traces of arousal in the air outside (at least Stiles was conscientious enough to _not_ do his business inside the cabin where the smell would be trapped for extended periods of time and much harder to ignore).

Leaving the buckets on the porch for later use, he and the dog step inside. If he makes a little extra noise and puts the pails down with more force than needed in an attempt to avoid startling the boy inside too much, then that’s between him and the pails. Once he’s inside, he sees Stiles in clothes too large for him, eyeing the pot over the hearth as its contents boiled and bubbled.

It’s probably a well-balanced mix of preserved meat and vegetables, he thinks with a glower.

(Derek lost the argument about his dietary plan.)

Not bothering to put a shirt on while he air dries his torso, Derek plops himself down in a chair and waits. He’ll have to get Stiles clothes that actually fit soon: tops, pants, a coat, and boots, if possible, for the upcoming winter.

He tries not to think of the implications behind those thoughts.

Apparently satisfied with the stew he’s whipped up for their breakfast and lunch, Stiles brings the pot over and sets it on the table. It does seem a lot more appetizing with more ingredients, Derek doesn’t admit aloud. Instead, he rips a piece of bread, dips it into the stew and pops it in his mouth.

Stiles shoots him a knowing smirk anyway.

He narrows his eyes and scowls.

In Derek’s shirt, the collar hangs low, exposing the boy’s pale column and the dull scar across it. On his part, he does his best to ignore it while Stiles pretends it’s not there. It’s not worth drawing attention to, really. It doesn’t even compare to some of the more horrendous things Derek’s seen in his life.

The cut didn’t even get the boy’s vocal cords.

Derek knows this for a fact because during his first week, Stiles woke him up multiple times with his spiked heart rate and yelling from his nightmares. The boy was writhing and crying out for his father and a ‘Scott’, asking them where they were over and over again. Not knowing what else to do, Derek nudged him awake and turned his back to him, pretending to have done it in his sleep.

It’s not a topic of discussion he ever brings up with Stiles. Whether or not Stiles knows that his voice box is intact and functional, that’s none of his business. Besides, Derek knows for a fact that he has his own nightmares where he calls out the names of those he lost and begs for them to come back. He’s long since lost count of how many times he’s woken up to dreams about Laura leaving him.

If Stiles is willing to not poke around and ask about his past, then he’s more than happy to return the favour.

\--

Another week goes by before he finally relents and sets off to the village for clothes and food. Leaving the dog to keep Stiles company, or maybe it’s the other way around, he sets off with a large deer tucked under his arm. Although reluctant to enter the village in the middle of the day, the village leader made it clear that he won’t allow a Strain to visit during other time of the day, for the sake of his image. And with the temperature steadily dropping, he knows that winter will be upon them soon and wants to start stocking up on necessities.

Winters are always dangerous, even to Strains. The blizzards and storms come and go without warning and those unfortunate enough to be without shelter rarely make it through the night. Even in the village, he has seen men with missing limbs and digits—all telltale signs of a person who got caught in a flash blizzard but was lucky enough to escape with their lives. The loss of a frostbitten limb is a small price to pay for survival.

Walking past the village gates with the deer carcass under his arm, he inhales sharply and tenses up at the sound of children running around, yelling at one another. They all stop dead in their tracks and an uneasy silence seems to settle over the village the moment they spot him. He’s tempted to duck into the baker’s hut instead of going to the village head, knowing that she won’t ask questions, but he also knows that she only has two small children and won’t be able to help him.

He does his best to ignore their stares and the scowls directed at him.

A few of the children run off and disappear into their homes while the braver ones, mostly the older ones, stay and watch on, silently egging each other on, urging one another to approach the Strain. In the corner of his eye, he sees a boy spitting thrice on the ground. Some of the younger children follow suit, not knowing the significance behind the gesture. If he’s lucky, he’ll make it to the leader’s place before they regain their wit and grow any bolder.

Unlike some Strains, he’s never tried to pretend to be Human. He doesn’t understand why they do it. There are always telltale signs—whether it’s the way light reflects off their eyes or the way they react to the faintest smells, someone will always notice. He had been raised to be proud of the strain running through his blood.

“We’re Strains, not animals,” his mother used to tell them.

Predators, not killers.

Strains.

Not abominations.

Not monsters.

He struggles to remember her words sometimes—struggles to believe them when he knows that in the eyes of most of the villagers, all they see is a beast.

It’s only the thought of Stiles and the dog waiting for him back at the cabin that forces his feet onwards. He doesn’t want the boy anywhere near these people, but on the assumption that he’ll be staying for a while, Derek knows that he’ll have to bring Stiles to the villagers at some point just to make sure no one mistakes him for an intruder. The very thought of Stiles falling back into the clutches of any of the villages nearby, especially after the villagers start associating him with a Strain, makes him uneasy.

(Stiles, who’s probably taking advantage of his absence and playing with the dog outside that very moment despite Derek’s best efforts because Stiles is a terrible listener, he thinks with an exasperated sigh.)

Due to some small miracle, Derek manages to make it all the way to the village head’s hut unscathed. The head is a tall, stony-faced man who has always regarded Derek with suspicion and thinly veiled distaste. It’s easy enough to overlook if only because he knows that the man will never act on it, not at the risk of all the lives that depend on him.

Stepping inside, safe from the children, he waits for the man in the front room. It’s a Spartan room with a deer pelt splayed on the floor in the middle of the room, nowhere near as impressive as his bear rug—not that he’ll ever let on that he is in possession of one. It’s too valuable and would only lead to trouble. (There isn’t any particularly exciting story behind it. He had killed the bear while it was hibernating when he and the dog got caught in a flash blizzard and had to wait it out in a cave. It’s a story Stiles has been trying to get him to tell but he usually just looks the other way and feigns ignorance.)

In the centre of the room, above the fireplace, hangs the village head’s most prized possession. Derek has no idea what it does, but he’s seen similar things before in different sizes. It’s a flat, rectangular metal slate with a black panel with a button in the back and a scratched but reflective surface in the front. Laura used to have a small, pocket-sized one she used as a mirror. The panel on hers had been cracked and something rattled inside of it, but they never did find out what function it help beyond a mirror.

There’s skittering and hushed whispers outside.

The children are trying to spy on him.

Ignoring them, Derek glances at the reflective surface and blinks at the sight of himself, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. In the back of his head, he can hear his mother tsk’ing and Laura laughing. He’s wearing an old, worn out shirt since he wanted to avoid getting his favourite jacket dirty, but the dark stains and smears on it made it look like he's been out hunting using nothing but his claws and teeth. Eyes moving up his reflection, he runs a hand through his hair. It’s getting a little too long for his liking, and he’ll need to trim his beard back to a manageable length soon.

Maybe he’ll let Stiles help with the haircutting—or maybe not, because Stiles will probably be a hazard to himself as well as Derek and the dog if given a sharp object.

Just then, the village head enters the room, interrupting his train of thought. Derek straightens and nods his greetings, all too aware of his appearance for his comfort.

The man doesn’t seem to care anyhow.

There’s no small talk between.

He hands the deer over and lists everything he needs, trying his best to downplay the clothing part. The village head studies the deer for a moment, evaluating its worth before leaving to retrieve the requested items. He returns with two large sacks of food and an armful of his eldest son’s old clothes. When the man asks about the clothes which are obviously too small to be for him, Derek merely shrugs and gathers the goods into his arms.

They’ll see—maybe, he answers vaguely.

With the transaction finished for the day, Derek takes his leave on the promise that he’ll return at least once more before winter hits. When he steps back outside, he finds the children, now feeling braver, standing around, waiting for him to do something to live up to his reputation as a Strain.

Unimpressed, he arches a brow and steps past them.

His indifference seems to upset them and they start chasing after him, calling out to him and throwing dirt, pebbles and sticks at him.

“Dirty Strain!”

“Stop stealing our things, you monster!”

“Don’t ever come back!”

“Leave us alone, Strain!”

“Creatures like you don’t deserve to live!”

His Strain snarls and snaps its jaws, seething with rage—just one example would do.

Just one example and they would all learn to leave him alone.

But instead, he doesn’t respond and continues walking through the village with his fists clenched. Some of the villagers nod their encouragements to the children, some join in. Others turn away and pretend not to see.

Without that deer, he thinks to himself, half of you would be dead by spring.

\--

When he gets back, Stiles is running around outside with the dog, as he had suspected. The tense knot in his gut loosens a little at the sight of the familiar figures, but it’s not enough to get his eye colour to change back.

The boy’s turns around and waves, eyes lighting up at the sight of the food and clothes, but his heart rate gives away the jolt of surprise he feels at the sight of Derek’s glowing red eyes. Despite this, he quickly running over to examine the goods Derek brought back, gesturing wildly with excitement at the sight of clothes then huffing with annoyance when he sees the lack of footwear.

Derek cuffs him on the back of the head, which causes the boy to flail is arms loudly at him. He doesn’t even know how it’s possible for hand gestures to be loud, but Stiles makes them all the time. Grunting dismissively, he carries the things back into the cabin with the boy and the dog trailing closely behind him.

Stiles never mentions the dirt in Derek’s hair or the drying tracks of blood running down his hands.

After setting the food and clothes down for Stiles to rummage through, he goes outside and washes the blood off his hands. As much as he would like to burn his shirt and never think about the incident again, he knows he can’t risk it with winter coming and that that incident is far from the last.

Without a word, he strips down and heads out into the woods, making sure he’s out of sight before shifting into his full Strain form. It’s a form he won’t even let the dog near, not trusting himself enough to ensure her safety. Stretching his limbs, he lets out a howl and takes off running, trying to get the voices of the children out of his head.

\--

Stiles and the dog are waiting for him when he returns.

Accepting the clothes from the boy and brushing the dirt out of his hair, he’s reminded of how much he needs a haircut. With a sigh, he steps back into the cabin and rummages through his tools until he comes across an old pair of scissors. He pulls the scissors out and places it on the table, sending a pointed look towards Stiles while running his fingers through his hair again.

(He would’ve chucked it over to Stiles, but he can’t imagine that turning out very well.)

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise. It’s a look of skepticism at best.

Derek immediately starts having second thoughts.

He starts thinking about putting the idea off indefinitely, but before he can change his mind completely, Stiles reaches out and takes the scissor with reassuring gestures that yes, he can do it.

Derek doesn’t feel very reassured.

Shaking his head, he tells the boy that he changed his mind.

Stiles doesn’t let go of the scissors and crosses his arms, gesturing for him to sit down.

He shakes his head again, asking for the scissors back, insistent that he can do it on his own.

With a scoff, Stiles merely arches a brow.

Derek scowls.

Stiles is unmoved.

The two of them go back and forth for a while until finally, Derek bites out, “Shut up,” and sits down.

Even though he has enhanced healing abilities and the boy can’t actually do any real damage to him, he’s still tense and uneasy. He holds his breath when Stiles rolls up his sleeves and doesn’t exhale until the first cut’s been made.

The haircut ends with minimal bloodshed, but Derek still doesn’t trust Stiles enough to trim his beard or go anywhere near his throat with a sharp object, so he does it himself. Reaching back to run his fingers through his freshly cut hair, he can feel unevenly cut strands and pulls his lips into a tight line. While he knows it’s probably far better than anything he could’ve done on his own, he’s still silently glad he doesn’t own a mirror.

\--

It takes another week and a half, and a tip from the baker to find a travelling merchant passing through the area. With the intention of getting proper boots and other assorted goods for Stiles and himself, he goes with the dog to track the man down, finally locating him in a clearing deep in the woods.

He looks at the man, a New Human with old, tattered rags and the large pack he has on his back with rolled up bundles dangling off the bottom. The man appears wary of him and the dog—not that Derek can blame him. Encounters in the woods are rarely good things. He’s tense too, catching the scent of wolfsbane and mountain ash coming from the man’s bag.

Travelling merchants’ items are always in demand. Acquired from excursions through Dead Zones or the outskirts of Dead Zones, the men and women constantly risk run-ins with rogue Strains and wild animals just for the sake of business. Most travellers don’t live very long. Some get caught out in blizzards, some wander into Dead Zones only to never leave again, and some have the misfortune of running into rogues and thieves in the woods.

Derek doesn’t understand what drives them and keeps them from settling down in a village, but he’s not about to ask. Holding his free hand up in a gesture of peace, he tells the man that he’s interested in trading and gestures for the dog to stand down. 

She huffs and relaxes.

The merchant gives him an once-over before asking him what kind of goods he’s willing to trade.

He shrugs and asks the man what kind of goods he has to sell instead of offering an answer. Having dealt with travelling merchants in the past, he quickly learnt that revealing all his cards was a bad way to start off a trade.

After a pause, a small grin makes its way to the man’s lips and he puts his pack down. He starts listing off all the general items he has on him: trinkets, clothes, weapons, books, herbs, spices, magic ingredients.

The trader probably has more valuable items on him, but Derek’s only interested in the clothes, books and trinkets. The man pulls out a couple selections of sweaters and shirts. It’s not an extensive collection, but he’s not looking for anything fancy and Stiles has the clothes he brought back from the village. He ends up picking out a long-sleeve for himself and sees a red hooded sweater. 

It looks warm and he finds the colour loud in a way that reminds him of Stiles, who’s probably bored out of his mind, waiting at the cabin. He sets the sweater aside.

From the trader, he also manages to get boots for the boy. He doubts they’ll be a perfect fit, but it’s the best he can do for now and an infinite times better than nothing. 

None of the trinkets catch his eye.

Most of them are strange metal pieces scavenged from Dead Zones. They may have been useful once, but are now obscure and unrecognizable. Nothing but reminders of a better time when technology flourished and all these parts must’ve been recognizable by children. But now, they’re collected by the powerful to display their wealth and status and nothing more.

He picks up a small, black plastic box with buttons and holes. Any writing or paint on it has long since been worn off. It makes no sense to him. Handing it back to the man, he looks through the books, looking for something that will keep both him and the boy occupied when they inevitably get snowed it.

The man doesn’t have a large selection of proper books either—there’s only has a few ratty novels and a hardcover with half the pages missing. But what he does have are thin picture books filled with panels and speech bubbles instead of text. Intrigued, Derek sifts through them, reading the titles to himself. There’s _Batman, X-Men, Superman, Spiderman, Calvin and Hobbes_ and other titles he’s never heard of before.

When the trader realizes that Derek’s familiar with letters, he seems eager to unload the books onto him. He explains that with many of the villagers being illiterate, they much prefer trinkets to books; and as a result, the books have been nothing but dead weight for him.

Against his better judgment, Derek shrugs when the man asks if he wants them, practically offering to hand them over for nothing. He ends up trading preserved meat and some of the jewellery he found on a corpse in the woods during his first year alone.

The man thanks him for his patronage and for lightening his load significantly. He gathers his things up and continues on his way to the village, humming a cheery tune to himself. 

Derek stares at his newest acquisition for a moment, wondering how he ended up in this situation, trading his things for a boy who should’ve died weeks ago but stubbornly decided, on his own, to take refuge at Derek’s place. Not only is he trading his things away, he’s doing it for impractical things--for picture books, which he’s pretty sure will send Stiles bouncing off the walls in excitement. He’s spoiling Stiles—Stiles, who isn’t family or even a friend.

But all the same, he’s the first non-animal companion he’s had since Laura, a little voice in the back of his head reminds him.

Heaving a sigh, he bundles all the books together in his new shirt. He grabs the sweater and boots and begins making his way back towards the cabin. In his head, he can already see Stiles’ reaction. Trading with merchants was always exciting, never knowing what new items were available for trade. He remembers his encounters with them well, back when Laura was still with him, there to help him barter.

She had always been better than him at negotiations.

Derek had gotten his leather jacket and boots off of a travelling merchant. It’s one of his few, happier memories of her—her triumphant grin when the trader relented. She had been so proud of herself for being able to give him something, to provide for her only pack. He remembers the way she flipped her hair back and told him, “And _that’s_ how it’s done, little bro.”

He misses her.

Laura had tried so hard to keep the two of them alive and whole after his Day Zero— _their_ Day Zero. Thrown into a position she wasn’t ready for, she did a great job, and Derek never got to tell her.

And then she was gone.

Leaving on the promise that she would be right back for him only to never return—

A cold nose digs into his hand, pulling him out of his reverie. He glances down at the dog and blinks. She licks her nose and barks, keeping his attention trained on her. It’s at times like these that she reminds him of Laura who had never been one to put up with his brooding. Her barking attracts Stiles’ attention who somehow manages to kick over an empty pail as he makes his way over across the clearing.

Effectively distracted, Derek rolls his eyes and, not for the first time, wonders how Stiles ever survived long enough to get thrown into his life. He marches past the boy and back into the cabin without a word. When he doesn’t hear Stiles behind him, he glances back from the doorway and shoots him a pointed look which sends the boy scrambling after him.

Once inside, he tosses the sweater over to Stiles’ head, catching him off guard. It’s petty of him, but it amuses him far more than it should, seeing Stiles flail about, trying to regain his bearings. Holding the sweater in front of him and studying it, Stiles’ face lights up. He immediate pulls it over his head and tests out the pouch by sticking his hands into it.

Not wanting to give Stiles any time to show his appreciation because he never knows how to react, Derek shoves the boots into the boy’s arms and tells him to try them on. They turn out to be a little too big, but Stiles doesn’t seem to care and there isn’t anything either of them can do about it now.

The boy stomps around with a huge grin on his face and looks like he’s about to race outside to test out his new clothes with the dog when he notices the bundle wrapped in Derek’s new shirt. He points at it with an inquisitive look and Derek shakes his head, telling him that it’s for winter.

Bouncing on the ball of his heels, Stiles inches closer and Derek holds him back with a hand to the face.

Stiles flails his arms and tries to push Derek’s arm away. The dog sits down and watches with amusement. Quickly realizing that the boy's not an intruder, she stopped stepping in and growling at the boy after the first week.

Managing to slip past Derek’s hand, Stiles makes a dive for the bundle only to have Derek yank it out of his reach, holding it above his head, his eyes glowing red--a gesture more for posture than threat. There isn’t that much of a height difference between then, but Stiles is noticeably leaner while he’s broad-shouldered and well-built.

Stiles huffs and jumps for it, with one hand on Derek’s shoulder to help boost him up.

Derek leans back and scoffs at the boy’s efforts. He remembers doing this to Cora and her toys. She had never been one to take teasing sitting down and ended up using her claws to climb up him like a tree to retrieve her toy. The incident ended with him explaining to his parents why there were holes in his shirt and a mild talking to for teasing his sister.

He almost drops the bundle when Stiles jumps and clings onto his arm, trying to drag it down with his weight. Attention returning to the situation at hand, he switches hands and arches a brow smugly at the boy.

Stiles lets go of his arm and pouts. 

Derek thinks he’s won the fight, but then,

“C’mon! Don’t be such a sourwolf!”

They both look surprised by the sudden outburst. Stupefied, he hands the bundle over. Stiles takes it without a word and unwraps it to find the books. Seemingly forgetting about the incident mere moments ago, his face lights up at the sight and immediately hugs the books possessively to his chest.

Derek thinks he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is by this.

Of all things, of course Stiles would break his silence for comic books.

He stops telling Stiles to shut up after that.

\--

They pass their winter easily. With ample food and kindle stored up, they spend most of their time inside, curled up on the bear skin rug. They cut down to two meals a day, spending a lot more time sleeping with the sun only out for what feels like a few brief moments every day. 

Stiles starts talking again, but he keeps his voice soft and continues to rely heavily on his gestures as if someone had placed a limit on the amount of words he’s allowed to speak. Derek tries not to think about Stiles’ reluctance to speak too much, or how the boy became this way because Stiles looks like a talker— _is_ a talker, and for him to grow so wary of it, something horrendous must have happened.

They bicker over whose turn it is to go outside to retrieve snow for water, they discuss the merits of Batman, and they have drawn out debates about which of the X-Men is the best. They look at the machines depicted in the panels and try to figure out how they worked and what they were used for. Derek occasionally pulls out his grandmother’s journal and they read the entries in silence, each trying to teleport themselves to that time.

At one point, inspired by _Calvin and Hobbes_ , Stiles runs outside and tries to build monstrous snowmen only to have them disappear the next day underneath a new layer of snow. Derek rolls his eyes at the boy’s disappointment and tells him that he told him so.

Stiles merely huffs indignantly in response.

Their argument dynamics change now that Stiles is speaking again, however sparsely. Now, when the boy loses an argument, he still throws up his arms, but he also adds an exasperated “Oh my god!” to it. Derek, on the other hand, no longer tells Stiles to shut up. Instead, he just scowls and pushes Stiles away by the face, ignoring the way he can feel the boy’s grin against his palm or the warm breath against his fingers as he laughs.

It’s during the moments of camaraderie that Derek becomes hyper-aware just how comfortable he’s gotten with the boy’s constant presence. It feels frighteningly normal to be lying on the rug with the boy asleep on top of him, an issue of Batman draped over his face, and the dog wedged between them.

The boy’s getting too close, he thinks. That’s what happens when names are put to faces, it makes getting attached that much easier. He can’t bring himself to do anything about it though—just like how he can’t bring himself to ask Stiles if he plans on leaving once the snow melts.

Occasionally, Stiles would talk about his life before meeting Derek. The stories are usually long-winded but vague. Stiles could go on for an entire day and never disclose any actual information. It’s frustrating listening to Stiles, but Derek hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with information about himself either, so he’s not in a position to complain.

The only new thing he learns about Stiles is that he had a ‘bro’ back in the town he grew up in. Scott, who was his best friend and practically a brother. He wasn’t the brightest person, but he always had the best intentions and was ‘physically incapable of having a mean thought,’ as Stiles put it.

\--

One night, while the three of them are curled up on the rug, trapped inside as a blizzard raged outside, a certain mood sets over him. There’s a slow fire in the hearth and Stiles is using his stomach as a pillow while he reads. With his head tilted back, Derek can see the scar glowing, lit by the fireplace. From the side, he can see that it’s thicker than he had originally thought.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches out and runs a finger over it, feeling the boy tense at the touch, breath hitching and heart rate speeding up.

“What happened?” he asks. 

“They said I talked too much,” is all Stiles tells him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The village is quiet. 
> 
> The children are in the woods again.

The first day of spring is marked by rain.

The ancient hinges on the door protest as he forces it open, pushing away the pile of snow that had accumulated in front of it from the wind.

With the arrival of spring, Derek is just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Stiles to leave, for him to be on his own again. He tries to convince himself that solitude is exactly what he wants and that it was a curse rather than a blessing that Stiles entered his life with his longwinded rants and loud gestures.

Stiles will probably leave Derek’s life as abruptly as he entered it, he thinks. And given the boy’s love for the comic books, he’ll probably take those with him when he leaves.

He tries not to think about it too much.

There’s still time, he thinks to himself—tries to convince himself.

It’s still cold outside and the rain’s coming down so hard that it creates an effective wall around the house, limiting their vision to just a couple of meters beyond the porch. With nothing to better to do and neither of them willing to venture beyond the safety and warmth of the cabin, they sit at the door way and watch as the rain batters away at the snow and ice.

Stiles is sitting next to him with the bear rug draped over his shoulders, hiding him underneath the thick brown fur, shielding him from the cold. The dog is between them, resting her head on his knee, idle and content.

“Is it always like this around winter?” Stiles asks, rubbing his reddened nose, sniffling loudly. It’s such a human gesture, Derek wrinkles his own nose at the sight of it, wondering just how much colder the air feels to the boy. “I don’t remember ever seeing so much snow.”

Derek shrugs. Winter here has always been like this—since he arrived, anyway.

“How was Christmas ever a thing?” the boy grumbles, pulling the pelt closer around himself.

So they discuss Christmas.

His grandmother’s journal and their limited sources mention December 25th and large indoor trees and presents and ‘Christmas shopping’ and ‘Santa Claus’. Derek’s never seen an actual calendar before but he knows December is in the winter, just like he knows March, April and May are in spring, hence ‘March winds’, ‘April showers’ and ‘May flowers’—whimsical sayings he’s heard villagers use from time to time. And while he understands that before Day Zero, people used to measure years in increments of weeks and months, and that there were probably still people using that system, his years always passed according to the seasons.

 _His_ year starts with the first rainfall—when the snow melts and the animals return.

Stiles doesn’t know much about Christmas either. The winters in his hometown weren’t as harsh as their current location, but no one was willing to go out to haul a tree back inside or to find gifts. Merchants take shelter and stop travelling in the late fall. To carry out Christmas traditions as they did before Day Zero would be suicide.

Stiles argues that people shouldn’t need to wait for an occasion to give gifts if they have gifts to give.

So they discuss the idea of obligated gift giving and the old man who supposedly visits all the children in the world and gives them presents.

Derek doesn’t think it’s possible for an old man to be able to visit all the children in the world in one night.

Stiles argues that they don’t know what it was like before Day Zero and that maybe Santa was a superhero, a Strain of unsurpassed abilities.

Derek thinks the idea ridiculous.

Stiles concedes but people clearly believed in the man, once upon a time.

In the end, they both agree that Christmas sounds too complicated for them to understand without experiencing it for themselves.

“Maybe we can try it next year,” Stiles suggests.

Derek wonders if he’s serious and tries to quell the hope festering in his chest.

\--

When the ice and snow have finally melted enough, Stiles takes off outside at the first opportunity he gets. He jumps off the porch with the dog following close behind, the two of them splashing through slush and muddy puddles with glee. Derek half expects him to disappear into the woods and never come back, but Stiles stays within earshot the entire time.

Although tempted to join in if only to stretch out his limbs, Derek rolls his eyes and begins walking towards the woods, beckoning the pair to follow him to set the traps. They’re running short on food. If the traps don’t get anything in the next day or two, he’ll be forced to hunt.

The dog reappears immediately, followed by Stiles who has somehow already managed to get twigs in his hair, mud up to his knees, and a grin on his lips.

While he sets up the traps, Stiles hums to himself and uses a stick to write out letters in the dirt.

Upon closer inspection, Derek realizes that they’re not just letters. “Runes? You know magic?”

The boy hesitates for a moment and nods.

Seeing Stiles’ discomfort and expectancy of a negative reaction on his part, Derek says, “Oh,” and goes back to setting the traps in silence.

\--

Every morning, Derek wakes up with mixed feelings. There’s relief that Stiles is still there, anticipation that today will be the day he leaves, and agitation because if he’s going to leave, he should stop dragging it out and just go already.

Days and weeks go by and Stiles still doesn’t show any signs of leaving.

Eventually, the worry ebbs and bleeds out into something akin to resignation. He figures Stiles will leave when he wants to. He’ll either be loud and obnoxious about it or he’ll sneak off without a word, depending on his mood. Derek can only wonder which season he’ll leave and attach his memories and feelings of loss to.

His Day Zero took place on a beautiful early spring day. The air was crisp and cool, and despite the grey clouds in the sky, the sun never went away and the rain never fell.

He lost Laura in the middle of fall. The leaves were all dead and shrivelled up on the ground, ripped from the trees by the wind and rain, stripping their branches bare. He remembers the contrast—how pale her skin looked compared to the dark redness of her blood and flesh, and the brown leaves that tried but failed to cover her body up entirely. She had looked so cold on the ground, normally bright eyes unseeing—

Derek shakes himself from his thoughts. Sunny spring days has a way of making him pensive, even more so than long, harsh winters. Stiles is out, collecting water from the stream with the dog, leaving him to sit on the porch to skin the deer and raccoons they had trapped.

As a precaution, he instructs the boy to avoid the villagers whenever possible, especially the children. If caught by villagers, he was to tell them that he was with Derek. The villagers weren’t reckless enough to damage his things. But the children were a different story.

Blind to their own cruelty, it doesn’t even cross their mind that what they’re doing might be wrong. He hates them, but he doesn’t know if he blames them. But even so, he knows that they’re bound to cross the line eventually.  

So when Stiles and the dog come running back from the stream, Derek immediately stands up with his claws and fangs out, tense and alert. Stiles quickly explains that a couple of the village children had ventured out and caught them off guard on their way back and decided to start throwing things.

Derek snarls, eyes immediately honing in on the cuts on the boy’s arms.

Stiles reassures him that the children didn’t manage to get in any good throws and the cuts were mostly from running through low hanging branches and sharp leaves. The dog defended him and managed to scare a couple of the children to tears, he tells Derek proudly.

The Strain in him wants nothing more than to run out and chase the intruders out of his territory.

But upon seeing blood trickling down Stiles’ arm, he takes a deep breath and calms himself. The children have probably returned back to the village already. Against his instincts, he goes and grabs the medical supplies instead. 

“They called me a Strain,” Stiles tells him in the cabin while he disinfects the wound. “I told them I was Human, and they started called me a Strain-lover instead. They called me a monster even though I’m exactly the same as them.”

Derek doesn’t comment.

“I don’t get it. If they hate Strains so much, why do they accept help from you?” Stiles asks.

“Because without it, they might not survive.”

“Why do you even help them? I know you don’t need them to survive out here.”

It was mostly loneliness and the need for social interaction that drove him. It was something to remind him that he still had a human side. Uncomfortable with admitting the truth, he lies, “I don’t know.”

“Just doing it out of the kindness of your heart then,” Stiles says with a wry grin. “Why do they hate you when you’ve never done anything bad to them?”

“Because it’s easier to place the blame on someone than seeing a situation for what it really is,” Derek pauses, “I guess.”

Stiles frowns, thoughtful. “I guess I can understand that. They called me a monster so I called them ignorant chauvinists. I don’t think they knew what that meant though, so I told them to go learn how to read.”

Sometimes, it surprises him just how brave this Human boy can be.

\--

It doesn't take very long for rumours to spring up.

The Boy who Runs with Strains, they call him.

Stiles is delighted by the name.

\--

Stiles doesn’t talk in front of unfamiliar adults.

Derek finds this out when he takes Stiles with him when he goes to find the travelling merchant who had just left the villages. There isn’t anything in particular that they need, but Stiles wanted to see what the man would have to offer.

They discover an old map among the books. Stiles is instantly in love with it along with a couple of books on folklore and fairy tales. The man tells them that he retrieved the books from the pink room of a building on the outskirts of a Dear Zone nearby. Curiosity piqued, Derek unrolls the map and asks the trader about where they are and what all the names mean. Stiles nods eagerly, fingers twitching and neck jerking in anticipation.

Amused by the boy’s twitchy enthusiasm, he points to a place near the top. “This is approximately where we are right now. If you go up further north, you’ll hit Canada. It’s colder up there, but also safer—from rogue Strains anyway. There weren’t that many people living up there before, y’know?” Then he points at the names in bold next to little triangles. “These are all Dead Zones. Some are worse than others.”

Stiles raises a brow and points to the little box labeled ‘Legend’ in the corner of the map.

“All of them? The map calls them cities,” Derek says, translating.

“That’s what they used to be known as, back before Day Zero. If you’re planning on travelling, it’d be a good idea to avoid them, especially down south by San Francisco and Los Angeles. There are rogue Strains and animals running all over the place down there. And if you want to go east…well, you best not head that way. It’s not worth it,” the man tells them, rolling the map back up.

Derek pays for their things and tosses them over to Stiles for him to carry. Before the man packs everything up, he asks about wolfsbane.

“Sorry,” the man tells him, “traded all the stock I had to a couple guys back at one of the villages. Maybe next time. I’ve got mountain ash though, if you’re interest?”

Stiles perks up and makes grabby motions with his hands so Derek gives in and gets him a bagful—he figures that’s enough to make up for touching the scar on his throat without permission that one night, something that still nags at him in the back of his mind. On the way back, Stiles promise him that he won’t use the mountain ash unless there’s an emergency.

They end up taking a detour back to the cabin when he catches the scent of villagers and wolfsbane nearby. 

\--

Back at the cabin, Stiles immediately dives into the books on fairy tales. He laughs and opens a page for Derek to see. There’s a picture of a woman and a monster titled ‘Beauty and the Beast’.

“Dude,” Stiles starts.

“Don’t call me ‘dude’,” he says with a scowl, trying to concentrate on the task at hand.

What on earth is a ‘dude’ anyway?

“ _Dude_ , it’s totally a Strain,” Stiles tells him, ignoring his previous comment. “Looks like they had them back then as well.”

Derek spares the book a glance, grunts and goes back to work on preserving the meat while Stiles reads the story out loud. He doesn’t like the story—doesn’t like thinking of the strain in his blood as a curse waiting to be broken.

Stiles waves off his complaints and starts reading other stories to him.

He reads ‘The Little Mermaid’, which is about a fish Strain turning Human and, depending on the version, marrying or dying for the sake of a Human prince (he doesn’t like either versions, but the version with the redhead—Ariel—is worse). Stiles also reads Snow White, Cinderella, Hansel and Gretel, and Little Red Riding Hood.

(Derek interrupts him after the wolf eats Little Red with “and they lived happily ever after. The end.” 

He’s tired of the wolf being the antagonist.

Stiles rolls his eyes and reads the rest silently to himself.)

When Stiles finishes with the fairy tales, he moves onto folklore about vampires and ghosts and werewolves. Eyes gleaming with excitement, he asks Derek if he’s actually a werewolf.

Derek rolls his eyes and tells him that he’s a wolf Strain, not a werewolf.

The very idea of a Strain losing control and shifting once a month is ridiculous.

Stiles snorts, unconvinced, “You grow fangs, you get even more growly than usual, you get kind of furry, you howl at the moon. Maybe you’re a werewolf with excellent control. What’s the difference?”

“The difference is I’m real.”

\--

They spend a couple of nights studying the map, trying to memorize all the names of states and cities. Derek wonders if the state borders still mean anything or if Day Zero wiped those out too. He doesn’t remember seeing any lines on the ground during his travels. How did people before Day Zero ever know which state they were in? Who decided on such arbitrary lines? What’s further up north beyond Canada? Beyond the seas in the east and west? Is this it?

Stiles is disappointed that Gotham City isn’t on the map, but then he perks up when he sees a little town name in the box of California. Jabbing his finger at the map, the boy tells him, “Look, Beacon Hills. That’s the town I’m from. Or, it’s the town that the town I’m from is named after.” Derek has to take a moment to sort out his thoughts after that show of verbal acrobatics. How did Stiles ever manage to _not_ speak? “It’s printed on the map, so my town’s gotta be somewhere close to here, right? Wow, I ended up far away. Guess I’ve been walking the wrong way this entire time.”

Derek doesn’t mention that he’s heard of the town before, back when he and Laura were running from the Purgers. He remembers running past a sign saying ‘Beacon Hills – 10 miles’ when they crossed that paved, cracked road. He wonders just how long Stiles has been trying to find his way home and if he’s still trying.

“You’ve got a map now,” he says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, his eyes still on the map.

“You can find your way back.”

“And leave you all alone?” the boy teases.

Derek bristles. “I’m fine on my own,” he bites out even though he doesn’t know how he ever managed to spend whole winters on his own with no one to talk to.

He’ll manage, he tells himself.

“I know,” Stiles says breezily. “But I’m not. Fine on my own, that is.”

“So will you ever go back?”

“I don’t know. I think I’d like to? But I haven’t been trying very hard lately.” He swallows hard. “It’s been so long, I’m afraid of what I’ll find if I go back now,” Stiles confesses.

\--

Spring melts away into summer and the village children start exploring beyond the village walls again. None of them have managed to wander so far as the cabin yet, but Derek remains wary. He can’t wait for fall and winter to come. The children grow bold with the sun and warmth.

Sometimes they wander with torches and set plants on fire, shouting in delight as the leaves smoke and sizzle. They burn insects and bird nests sitting on low branches. All the animals stay hidden from sight when the children are in the woods.

Derek suspects that their ultimate goal is his cabin.

Stiles starts setting up wards around the place. They’re simple things that he learnt in his travels, but they help put Derek’s mind at ease, just a little bit.

They only run into villagers once in the woods on their way to check the traps. Children are loud and easy to avoid, but the men, trying their luck at hunting, are a little subtler and he can’t be in tune to all his senses at once.

These men won’t catch anything—their children have already scared off all the animals.

Stiles tenses and immediately shuts his mouth, his jaw clenching, retreating back into the safety of his silence. The dog bares her teeth and raise her hackles defensively. A couple of the men sneer while the others look on in disdain. Their fear of him isn’t as prominent as it used to be and that worries him. He wonders if it has something to do with the wolfsbane the travelling merchant claimed to have traded. 

Sniffing the air subtlety, he doesn’t smell any trace of the plant on them so he ignores them and silently urges Stiles on with the bump on an elbow.

Stiles doesn’t say another word until they’re back at the cabin.

\--

He asks the village head about the wolfsbane the next time he enters the village that made the transaction. He can smell it faintly in the air. The villagers are careless with it and make no effort to hide their newest acquisition.

The man replies in a steely voice that it's for any rogue Strain that may wander into the area.

Derek retorts that he has always taken care of all the Strains that have wandered too close in the past.

The leader tells him that if he's not doing anything harmful to the villagers then he has nothing to fear. 

He leaves with a scowl and the intention of never interacting with them again. This village isn’t detrimental to his survival, not when there are still two other villages to trade with. He won’t let these people run him out with just a threat.

\--

“I was wondering when you’d come by. There are new rumours flying around you and the boy you took in,” the baker says when he goes to her a few days later, “and I thought I’d check with you.”

He wonders if baking bread was this much work before Day Zero. She’s kneading a clump of dough and he can see the muscles in her arms working as she speaks. Somewhere in another room, he can hear her children hiding, waiting for him to leave, embarrassed and ashamed that their mother’s conversing with a Strain. 

“Stories about magic and orgies full of Strains and demons,” she tells him.

He snorts at how ridiculous it sounds.

She chuckles. “That’s what I thought.”

The uneducated man and their superstitions, his father’s words ring in his ears.

Exchanging goods, he’s about to leave when she says, “Be careful out there. The village to the west got their hands on Monkshood and the chief’s oldest son thought it’d be fun to keep some around. The chief won’t let him do anything with it, but the other men. You may be a Pure Strain, but you’re still young. You and your boy stay safe.”

Derek nods and steps outside. 

The village is quiet. 

The children are in the woods again.

It isn’t until he returns to the cabin that he realizes that the baker had called Stiles ‘his boy’.

\--

The first sign of trouble is the twinge he feels in his gut while checking the traps. He had sent Stiles and the dog to fetch water thinking it to be the safest task, seeing that the stream is in the opposite direction of the villages. Quickly finishing his round carelessly, he runs back to the cabin, half expecting Stiles to be there, laughing about his paranoia.

No one’s at the cabin.

Swallowing hard, he throws everything down and makes his way towards the stream. He can hear the sound of water, and further away, the sound of children, shrill and delighted. Dread gripping his heart, he takes off towards the sound.

When he gets there, he sees them pelting rocks at something on the ground.

It’s Stiles.

The boy’s curled up protectively in front of the dog who’s lying on her side, whimpering. The smell of blood and wolfsbane is pungent in the air.

Derek sees red.

The child has arrows and a bow slung over his shoulder. 

The child smells of wolfsbane.

The child is a _threat_ to _his pack_.

He shifts into his full Strain form without thinking and run the children down, taking down the one who smells of poison. The rest of the children scream and flee while the one on the ground struggles helplessly as Derek slams his forepaw onto the boy’s shoulder, feeling his arm pop out of its socket, hearing his clavicle and scapula give out with soft but satisfying cracks, smelling the blood welling up underneath the skin. 

The only thing that stops him from tearing the boy apart, limb by limb, like his Strain wants to is Stiles’ voice, so broken and pained, pleading him, “Derek, she’s not getting up. Derek! C’mon Derek, snap out of it! You have to help her.”

He looks over and snarls, all the muscles in his body tensing when he sees the dog still on the ground and Stiles staring back at him with wet eyes. There’s fear in them, but it’s not directed at him. Pushing his Strain back, he steps away from the now unconscious child and wills himself into his half-Strain form, unable to fully change back. He grabs the bow and arrows and snaps them and tosses them aside.

“What happened?” he asks, kneeling down close to the dog. There’s an arrow sticking out from her side, staining her fur red. 

“They ambushed us at the stream. We didn’t hear them,” Stiles tells him, never taking his gaze off the dog, brushing the tears out of his eyes. “Can you save her?”

He can’t.

Even if he stops the bleeding, the poison has spread too far already.

Placing a hand on her neck, he focuses on draining her pain. Her whimpering stops and she opens her eyes, giving his hand a lick of appreciation. His chest constricts painfully at the sight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

She nuzzles his hand, trying to comfort him.

He doesn’t understand.

Why is she the one comforting him when it should be the other way around?

Filled with the need to bring her somewhere comfortable and safe, he picks her up, ready to make his way back to the cabin, hands ensuring that she feel no discomfort. He turns his head to ask if Stiles is capable of walking, but before he can get a word out, Stiles is on his feet, standing beside him, running a hand through her fur and whispering soft, loving words to her. 

The dog dies in his arms on their way back.

Derek takes a shuddery breath and holds her a little closer.

\--

He lays the dog on the porch, letting Stiles hold her while he treats the boy’s wounds. It’s a welcomed distraction at first. Anything to keep the anger and grief from boiling over like it’s threatening to. But then he sees Stiles’ wounds. The boy has bruises and welts along his side and back from the rocks and a nasty cut above his eye.

Derek’s anger returns with a vengeance, but he’s no longer sure of who it’s directed to. He’s angry at the villagers for letting this happen, at the children for doing it—wants to destroy them all and leave their village devastated beyond repairs. He’s angry at himself for not getting there in time, for his helplessness, for letting it ever happen.

It burns under his skin and simmers in his blood, the rage mixing with the despair and guilt.

They can’t stay.

They need to leave but he doesn’t know where they can go.

“I want to go home,” Stiles mutters, quiet and miserable, fingers clutching at the dog’s fur.

“Then we’ll go,” he says quietly, his jaw clenched and staring into the middle distance. “Tonight. We’ll leave tonight and get you home.”

\--

The sun’s still up when they finish digging the dog’s grave.

It’s just a small mound, barely visible next to the cabin. On top, they placed what few decorative weeds and plants they could find nearby. Stiles has retreated into the cabin with a slab of wood he found earlier, giving him what little time they had left here to grieve.

Standing in front of the grave, he stares at it with dry eyes.

The tears don’t come even though he feels like he’s being torn apart from the inside.

The dog.

She never had a name, his most faithful and only companion.

The dog.

Even though she never had a name, even though they both knew this was coming, he feels the loss just as keenly. He thought he had prepared himself for the worst, but he was wrong.

It still hurts.

She may not have had a name, but she was _his_ dog.

\--

He doesn’t know how long he stands there for, but eventually, he tears himself away. Making his way back into the cabin, he finds Stiles curled up against a wall and carving symbols into the piece of wood. Wordlessly, he sits down next to Stiles, who immediately leans over and rests his head on his shoulder. Derek doesn’t try to dislodge the boy.

“I’m sorry. It’s because she saved me,” Stiles whispers.

“It’s not your fault. She knew what she was doing. She’d be happy knowing you’re okay. I’m glad—” Derek chokes out because it’s true. It hurts but he’s glad he still has Stiles. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if he had lost both of them. Taking a shaky breath, he repeats, “It’s not your fault.”

Stiles glances at him, setting down the slab of wood and his knife. “It’s not your fault either.”

He has doubts about that.

There’s a pause between them. It’s so long that Derek thinks Stiles has fallen asleep, but then he hears the boy asking, voice soft but so full of emotion, “She’s really gone, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” he whispers back.

“You never told me her name,” Stiles says.

“She doesn’t have one,” Derek confesses.

_Didn't._

“Why not?”

Derek doesn’t answer, overwhelmed by the guilt and shame.

As though sensing his discomfort, Stiles steers away from the question and suggests, “It’s not too late to name her. She deserves a name.”

“Then, Laura,” he says with a hard swallow. After a long pause, he adds, just half a whisper, “Like my older sister.”

“Laura,” Stiles repeats quietly, approvingly. “It fits.”

\--

When he opens his eyes again, the moon is illuminating the night sky with its glow. Next to him, Stiles is still asleep, dried tear tracks visible on his cheeks. Derek doesn’t want to get up but forces himself to. He goes outside and begins packing away his belongings that somehow strayed outside, picking and choosing what to toss away. He tries his best not to look over at Laura’s grave.

There’s the sound of crunching leaves and twigs in the distance. Someone’s coming. He tenses and turns towards the sound and waits, muscles taut and claws out, ready to attack.

Derek visibly deflates when the baker appears. Then he narrows his eyes in suspicion and asks, “What are you doing here? How’d you get here?” He’s never disclosed the location of his cabin to anyone before, for safety sake.

“I tracked you. It’s the strain in my blood. It’s weak, but still useful for certain things.” She looks around and her eyes land on the mound. “I heard what happened,” she tells him, “the rumours, anyway. Is your boy alright?”

He doesn’t bother answering. They both know that there would’ve been a lot more bloodshed if it had been otherwise. His Strain snarls angrily at the smell of village that lingers on her clothes.

Monsters, they had called him in that village.

Their children are the ones being raised into monsters and they dare make accusations at _him_.

His fists clench, drawing blood from his palms.

“So you’re leaving then?” the baker asks, snapping him out of his thoughts.

He gives a mute nod.

“I always knew they’d chase away my best customer,” she muses. “But I’m glad. This is no place for you or your boy. They plan on coming for you tomorrow.” She finds a tree stump and takes a seat, tucking her skirt neatly under her. “They think they’re being smart by driving you away. They hate you now, but they’ll hate you even more for leaving when winter comes around. And I know this won’t be worth very much, but I’m sorry for what we did to you.” 

As much as he wants to snap and lose his temper, wants to tell her that no apology will ever be enough, he doesn’t. He’s too exhausted to, too numb from the loss. So instead, he dismisses her apology with a wave. “You had no part in it.”

“No, but I’m sorry anyway. It was unwarranted and I can’t say I understand or approve of their actions. They can’t see that the children are growing up into Purgers— _monsters_.” Then she adds, “There are better places beyond these woods. There are villages and towns out there where Humans and Strains live together. I don’t know your backstory or why you decided to stay here, but there are better places out there—better people.”

Derek doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say.

The baker has a rueful smile on her face. “Just keep that in mind. I don’t mean to lecture you, but I’ll always be a mother first and foremost. It’s easy to forget that there’s more beyond this forest and these villages.”

“Why don’t you leave?” he asks.

“A New Human, and one with children, in the wilderness? Maybe one day I will. I suspect I won’t be able to hold onto my children much longer. One day, they’ll turn on me,” she says with a bitter laugh. “I’ll leave then. When I’m sure they’re no longer mine, but not before then.”

Her eyes flash in the darkness, showing off what little strain she has in her blood. Although New Humans can rarely hear their Strains, Derek thinks that even she knows that it’s seething, mourning for losses yet to come.

He feels like he should say something, because while he’s faced many losses of his own, he’ll never know this one. He’ll never know what it feels like to have family turn against him and he’s glad for it.

The baker pushes past the silence and hands him a large bundle. “There’s enough bread in there to last you a few days at least, and there are clothes and bandages for your boy. Don’t let him wander around smelling like blood.”

“Thank you. Wait here.” He takes the bundle into the cabin only to find Stiles awake and alert. 

Handing the bundle over, he takes the deer pelt the boy hands him along with a sack of preserved meat. It’s more than he had planned on giving the woman, but trying to carry everything would be a hassle, he reasons. Besides, this will be the last time they meet and he can always hunt. If they’re going to give things away, they might as well give it to those who deserve it.

Returning outside, he gives her the pelt and meat and tells her, “Take this for now. We’ll be gone before dawn. Anything left behind is yours if you want it.”

The baker nods her thanks. “You boys take care of yourselves now. Goodbye.”

Without another word, she turns around and starts making her way back to the village. Once she’s out of earshot, he returns to the cabin to see Stiles shuffling around, packing. The boy’s pointedly avoiding the area by the fireplace, he notices.

Derek glances over at the bear skin rug on the ground, the one they were all curled up on just yesterday morning.  “Do you want to bring it?” he asks.

Stiles glances over at him with a conflicted look on his face. “Won’t it be hard to carry?”

He shrugs. It’ll be large and unwieldy, probably, but it’s nothing they can’t handle—nothing compared to the memories and sentiment it comes with. “We can roll it up. We’ll bring it if you want.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says after some consideration. “I mean, it’s gonna be heavy and hard to carry, but it’s worth a lot. We can trade it at the next place for food or something if we need to, you know? I just don’t want to leave it here for…” he trails off.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees.

The rest of the night passes in silence.

\--

They only have their bare minimum with them when they leave. A few sacks full of food, one with clothes, a couple of their books, and one with medical supplies. All the tools they’ll need are attached to their belts or hidden in their pockets. 

He has the sacks slung over his shoulder as he spares one last look at the worn down log cabin and all its crooked walls—his home for the last few years. He remembers coming across it that one fall, after Laura, desperate for shelter and so relieved to find it empty save for the table. It had probably been abandoned for years when he found it, all remnants of its previous tenant gone.

The roof had partially collapsed from harsh winters and heavy snowfall. He had repaired it all to the best of his abilities and continued fixing it after every winter. Looking at it now, he realizes that he had never built up any real attachment to it.

The warmth had always come from the dog—from Stiles—not the shelter itself.

Suddenly, Stiles is next to him, hugging the bundled bear rug in his arms, his eyes telling of the loss he’s feeling far louder than any of his words ever could.

“Let’s go,” Derek says quietly.

The two of them stop by Laura’s grave one last time. Stiles places the grave marker he made on top with runes etched on the wood to keep the grave hidden from scavengers and villagers.

They leave without another glance back.

\--

As they make their way through the forest, distancing themselves from the villages that had wronged them, he thinks of the suspicious glares and the sneers on the villagers’ faces. His thinks of the men who, without a second thought, had left Stiles with him to be disposed of. He thinks of the children—the cruel, merciless children who set things alight and took the life of his closest companion.

Good riddance, he thinks.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s aware of their presence.

The soft crunch of dirt beneath his boots is deafening, amplified by the silence surrounding them.

Walking through the dark, neither of them speak. With their meagre belongings slung over his shoulder, he does his best to ignore the distinct feeling that something—some _one_ is missing. There’s an empty space next to him where perked ears, grey fur and a swishing tail used to be; there’s an empty space in front of him where a tall woman with weary but sharp eyes and a beautiful smile used to be.

To distract himself from the emptiness around him, he glances back at Stiles who has his arms wrapped around the rug and his eyes glued to the ground. The boy doesn’t notice his stare. He looks distracted and unsure, chewing on his lower lip to refrain from talking despite clearly wanting to. 

He’s letting him mourn in silence, Derek realizes with a start.

“Stiles,” he calls out, slowing his pace until he’s walking next to the boy.

Head snapping upwards, Stiles eyes him questioningly.

“Talk,” Derek says because he doesn’t want to go through this in silence, not when there’s an alternative—not when he doesn’t have to suffer alone. He’s tried violence, he’s tried crying, he’s tried screaming, but none of it ever lessened the pain. None of it ever loosened the constricted feeling in his chest. He’s mourned in silence for years now and he can see that it isn’t working.

All he wants right now is to hear another person’s voice.

Stiles hesitates at first but then slowly, he starts telling Derek about the squirrel Laura had caught him, nearly scaling a small tree to do it, and how proud she had been with her tail high in the air, bouncing as she trotted back. He tells Derek about how he may or may not have let out a manly scream when she dropped the animal’s corpse in his lap and wagged her tail, wordlessly laughing at him.

Derek’s throat tightens, but he can’t help but offer his own story. He remembers the first time he tried feeding a whole rabbit to her. It had been a few days since her rescue, and surprised by the size of the rodent, she spent a good chunk of time wrestling the dead rodent to the ground, growling and snapping at it, daring it to get up and run. 

Stiles chuckles, sad and fond. “She tripped me into the stream once when we were getting water. I’m pretty sure she did it on purpose.”

And they talk.

More than he’s talked in years, Derek tells Stiles stories about Laura and how protective she was. How much she loved to tease him. How she always took care of him. How she never left him alone and knew when he needed someone.

“She was always looking out for me,” he whispers.

He’s not sure which Laura he’s talking about anymore.

\--

They pass the first two villages without a second glance. When they approach the third, Derek mentions that there’s a village nearby, just in case. Stiles pauses and thinks about it, probably mentally calculating how much food and supplies they have left. After a minute, he shakes his head and continues walking.

Derek shrugs. It doesn’t matter to him. They still have food and he’s not too ecstatic about the idea of setting foot in another village and dealing with _people_ either.

At night, they set up camp amid small clusters of trees and bushes, staying out of sight of any travellers passing by. He sets up overnight traps nearby to keep up their supply of meat and every now and then, Stiles scopes out patches of non-poisonous fungi. They put out their fires as soon as their food is cooked and smoked to avoid detection, and with the summer heat and the bear pelt, they’re more than warm enough to get through the night. 

The days start blurring and all the trees start looking the same under the filtered sunlight and occasional rain. For days, they continue walking. Animals know better than to approach them and the two of them know better than to approach other travellers. It’s just the two of them, but it’s not lonely, not with Stiles filling the silence with nonsensical stories and random interesting facts. And even when they’re not talking, Derek can hear the boy’s steady heartbeat next to him.

During the lulls of silence, Derek tries to remember what it was like travelling with Laura after their Day Zero. He remembers the silence more than the small talk. Neither of them had been very talkative at first, too caught up in grieving over the loss of their home and family. When it was silent, Laura always had a pensive air about her. She was probably thinking about their next meal and how they would get through their next winter. All the while, he was trying to forget about the fire.

The fire and the pungent smell of wolfsbane and wildflowers…

Derek shakes his head and takes a deep breath, glad that Stiles can’t hear his heartbeat. He blinks when a familiar smell hits his nose and pauses to sniff again.

Blood.

Stiles stops walking and arches a brow at him in question, shoulders tense.

He begins walking closer to the smell to investigate. The smell’s so strong that whatever’s wounded must’ve died by now or will at least be too weak to fight back. And if there are predators or scavengers, he’s more than capable of taking care of them.

Without any hesitation, Stiles follows.

They find a man, a travelling merchant, dead on the forest floor. His corpse has been partially covered with leaves and stocks. The back of his neck is nothing more than a shredded mess of red and torso partly eaten.

Mountain lion, his brain supplies.

But that’s not what his attention’s focused on. Both he and Stiles are staring at the pack still strapped onto the man’s back. They exchange glances and quickly start removing the bag from the corpse. There’s no guilt or indecision in their actions. It’s not like the man will be needing his things anymore. His things were forfeit the moment the mountain lion’s teeth sank into the back of his neck.

He works on separating the pack from the body while Stiles removes the shoes and riffles through the pockets and clothes for hidden treasure. Once they’ve gotten all they can, they saddle everything up and leave, putting as much distance between themselves and the corpse as quickly as possible. They don’t bother burying the merchant’s body. The mountain lion and other scavengers will take care of that soon enough.

The two of them walk until he can no longer smell the blood. Setting down the pack, the two of them begin rummaging through the goods. There are useful things like food, herbs, tools, weapons and a couple of books. Stiles perks up when he sees the bulky metal and plastic weapons in the bag. With practiced ease, he disassembles one of the larger guns and puts it back together, cocking the weapon loudly with a satisfied grin.

Derek shoots him a wary look. He’s heard of guns—loud and violent, they don’t seem particularly useful when living and hunting in the woods. The cocking noise alone would be enough to scare the all animals away and attract unwanted attention. Most hunters prefer the bow and arrow. He wonders why Stiles seems so familiar with them.

“What?” Stiles asks. “We had one of these in Beacon Hills and my dad taught me how to use it. This one's in good shape. I’m not too sure about the smaller ones—they probably work the same way. They’re all useless without bullets though. Are there any in the bag? They’re pretty hard to come by nowadays, from what I understand.”

He finds a small pouch full of shells in the bag and tosses it over to Stiles. “Are these what you're looking for?”

The boy examines the bullets and sets it aside with the gun in his hands with a nod. “Yeah, these are perfect. We can probably just leave the other guns here, there’s no point in bringing them if there’s no ammo.”

Underneath the guns, they find plastic gadgets and strange round discs with a hole in the center. On one side, there's a reflective, iridescent surface, and on the back, there's nonsensical writing like _‘Led Zeppelin’_ and _‘Lady Gaga’_. Derek feels mildly conflicted when he sees them. On the one hand, he has the urge to hoard everything _just in case_ , but on the other, the things are useless are will do nothing but weigh them down.

They decide to leave the discs behind.

Next, Stiles pulls out stacks of green paper and the two of them study it curiously. There’s a picture of a man on one side and a building on the other. “The United States of America. One hundred dollars. In God we trust. Federal Reserve note. This note is legal tender for all debts, public and private,” Stiles reads. “Is Franklin the dude’s name?”

Derek shrugs.

“Tender for all debts…so this was what they used in trades?” Stiles runs a finger through the paper and furrows his brows. “People were strange back then, weren’t they? You can’t eat this stuff or use it in any practical way. Dollars couldn’t have been worth very much. It’s just paper. Are we gonna take it with us?”

He nods. “Might as well. It’ll make good kindling.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

\--

They walk until they run out of non-meats.

The village they finally decide to enter is small and reminds Derek of the ones they had left behind. There are walls but no guards at the gates, just the lingering smell of mountain ash. No one approaches them when they step in. They’re immediately greeted by the sight of children and tense up warily as memories flash through their minds. Stiles shuffles a little closer to Derek. But after a minute, it becomes clear that the children don’t find their presence interesting enough to spare them any more of their time and resume playing.

The two of them exchange questioning glances and take the lack of open hostility as a sign to continue. Derek nudges Stiles with is elbow and they keep walking. Some of the adults spare them suspicious glares, some ignore them completely, and others retreat back into their houses in fear of strangers. Much to his surprise, he catches sight of sheep and pigs wandering about the village.

These people must be hiding something—a powerful trump card of some sort—if they’re able to keep domesticated livestock around. Their lack of guards at the gate only serves as further proof. There are animals and rogues out in the woods, just waiting for an easy meal. Whatever these villagers have must be under tight control if the children are able to play outside with so little fear.

Derek tilts his head up subtly and sniffs. There’s mountain ash and salt in the air along with the usual scents of village life, but no wolfsbane. Following the scent of bread, they visit the baker’s hut first. The baker seems surprised by their surprise and explains that with the village being so small and in the middle of such a dense forest, they don’t get travellers very often. Derek shrugs and passes it off as good luck. By the end of their visit, they manage to secure two loaves of bread and directions to the village leader.

On the way there, the scent of mountain ash grows a little stronger along with the smell of a Strain. Brows furrowing, he pauses and glances towards the direction of the smell, trying to figure out why it’s there in the first place. A little ahead of him, Stiles has stopped and is watching him. With a nod of his head, Derek motions for them to take a short detour, swinging closer to the smell in case it proves to be a threat.

He follows the smell until they’re standing outside of a small hut tucked away behind other, bigger houses. As they get closer, he can smell alcohol and blood. Inside, there’s the loud, irregular heartbeat of a drunk and the small, frightened heartbeat of another person. 

Alcohol doesn’t affect Strains, so he reasons that the Strain inside must be the panicking one. Derek doesn’t know why he does it. It’s none of his business what these villagers do with Strains. But he steps inside anyway, ignoring Stiles’ nonplussed expression.

There’s a man sitting at the table in the middle of the room smells like a corpse. He reeks of alcohol and blood and rotten flesh. With a bottle of something in his bloodied hand, it takes him a full minute to notice them standing there. When he does, he looks over at them with glassy eyes and scowls, demanding to know who they are. Derek takes a step in front of Stiles and raises his hands, trying his best to look Human and disarming, telling the man that they were travelling merchants looking for the fields and the farmers.

The Strain is nowhere in sight, but he can hear a stutter in its heartbeat.

It’s aware of their presence. 

The drunk’s scowl doesn’t fade. If anything, it deepens. He tells them with clumsy, slurred words that they’re at the wrong place and for them to leave. Then with a grunt, he pushes himself off the table and stands unevenly on his feet. Emptying the bottle in his hand, he repeats himself and readies himself to chuck it at them.

Derek doesn’t try to argue. He nods his head slowly and steps back, keeping Stiles behind him the entire time until they’re outside again. Suddenly, he feels a punch to his arm and glances back at the boy, who’s looking more and more confused.

“I had to check something. I’ll explain after we leave,” Derek promises.

Stiles huffs but doesn’t attempt to protest.

Standing in front of the hut, in a low voice, he asks if the Strain inside can hear him.

“Who are you?” comes the reply, surprising him. It’s the voice of a frightened young man, unsure and wary. 

He had expected the growl of a rogue Strain or a cry of help from one that’s been captured by Purgers. But this—he doesn’t know what to make of this. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now.

Stiles bumps his shoulder against him and he notices that they’re starting to attract the attention of people nearby.

“No one,” he tells the Strain, and then they walk away.

\--

Making their way towards the village leader’s cabin when they pass the fields, he can see that they’re small plots of land—not particularly impressive—but they’re covered in crops. The farmer they find is busy attending to the fields. With an offhanded wave, he directs them to the leader’s place in hopes of being left in peace. Then, without a second glance, he returns to his work, leaving the two of them baffled at their abrupt dismissal.

Derek blinks and looks over at Stiles who shrugs in response.

Unable to do much else, they follow the man’s instructions and find themselves standing in front of a large cabin with a deer pelt instead of a door. Hearing someone shuffling inside, Derek calls out tentatively and waits. Moments later, a woman appears at the doorway. She gives them and their pack an assessing look before beckoning them inside.

The leader is a slender and petit woman with peppered hair drawn up into a bun. She has a weathered face, hardened from time and experience. The way she moves around seems to reflect the same thing. She wastes no time with pleasantries or small talk and immediately gets down to business. It’s something Derek can appreciate, not wanting to engage in more conversation than is strictly necessary. But at the same time, as with many of the other villagers, he gets the feeling that their cooperation and dismissive behaviour is nothing more than an effort to get them to leave faster.

After restocking their non-meat supply, Derek asks about the Strain situation in the village. With an offhanded shrug, he notes that it must’ve been safe if they didn’t bother assigning guards at the entrance.

The woman immediately tenses and eyes him suspiciously.

“It’s probably where we are—so far away from the rest of the world,” she tells him. “Why do you ask?”

She looks like she’s ready to call on whatever security they have. Derek’s mind whirls, trying to remember what Laura used to do to appear more disarming to strangers. He hasn’t had to deal with new villages and people for years now.

“If you keep frowning like that, you’re going to scare off all the Humans, Derek. They can’t smell emotion or hear heartbeats like we can. They don’t have their Strains telling them when something’s wrong. All they have to rely on is their sight—and that’s so easy to fool. Just smile,” she used to tell him. 

So he forces a smile onto his lips and he tells her that they’ve travelled a long way and there have always been guards—that it must be nice to live somewhere so safe and peaceful.

From behind him, he can hear Stiles scoffing under his breath and stifles the urge to elbow him. He wants information, and if that means having to put up a cheery front for the Human, then that’s what he’ll do.

The village leader relaxes a little and nods. She explains that they’ve never really had any issues with Strains or wild animals, although there had been one incident in the early spring when two brothers wandered outside the village to hunt. The younger brother managed to make his way back to the village but died soon after. After the devastating loss of both his sons, their father has taken up drinking and refused to leave his home.

The stutter in her heart tells him that the woman’s lying.

He suspects that she knows all too well that the boy didn’t die that day.

Derek nods and expresses his empty condolences. He thanks her for her patronage and they take their leave. On the way back, they walk by the drunkard’s hut once more.

“Do you have a name?” he asks quietly, eyes focused ahead of him.

“Isaac. My name’s Isaac. Who are you?” the Strain asks again, his voice so hopeful that Derek can’t help turning his gaze downwards to the ground.

He doesn’t answer the question.

“We’ll be back later,” he says instead. “Maybe.”

\--

They leave the village and retreat back into the woods to where they had hid most of their belongings. Stiles immediately sets about crossing out the runes he had etched into the tree trunks. After a moment, Derek gives a start when he suddenly becomes aware of the things tied up in the trees and the faint smell of preserved meat. He knows it’s risky leaving their things unattended, but still better than blindly toting all their belongings into a new place. Climbing up, he retrieves their things off the tree and tosses them down to Stiles for repacking.

“So what was that about?” Stiles asks him, watching him scale the tree.

“What was what about?” Derek grunts.

“That ‘I was just thinking that it must be nice to live in such a safe and peaceful place’ spiel.”

“Oh, that. That’s just something for dealing with Humans.”

Stiles arches a brow. “Really? What about me then?”

“What _about_ you?”

“I never got any special creepy-happy treatment.”

He rolls his eyes and begins working at the knots he had tied earlier. “That’s because you’re not a Human, you’re just a Stiles. Besides, different circumstances.”

“Wow, that’s so sweet of you to say,” Stiles says wryly. “I like your scowl-y wolf face too.”

Finally getting the bags untied, he calls out, “Head’s up.”

“I never thought you’d be the type to charm your way through life,” Stiles tells him, scrambling to catch the sacks. He lets out a squawk of protest when the sack of books gets thrown down.

“You do what you have to. She was going to call for help,” he mutters and jumps back down, landing gracefully on all fours. He doesn’t tell Stiles that the last time he ‘charmed’ his way through something, he lured a young man from his hunting party and lay with him.

“Why? Because you asked that question?”

“Because there’s a Strain in that village and she didn’t want an outsider knowing about it,” Derek says. “I think he’s trapped.”

Stiles blinks. “What?”

Derek explains to him what had gone on in the village while they were there and what he suspected the villagers were doing—about the boy who made it back to the village after being attacked by the Strain and how he didn’t die but turned. He surmises that the villagers, not knowing what else to do, locked him up in his father’s hut to be used as a defense against wild animals and Strains that wander too close. And judging by the amount of blood he smelt in that hut, the boy must get beaten regularly.

There’s a horrified look on Stiles face. “By his own father?”

He nods, curious about the boy’s reaction. It happens. It’s hardly uncommon for Human parents to shun their children if they’re born anything but, or if they get turned. He doesn’t like the thought of abused children any more than anyone else, but he’s also aware that it’s not a problem he can tackle—can _risk_ tackling. 

It would be impossible to help everyone.

But maybe they can help Isaac, his mind tells him.

“What do you want to do?” he asks.

“What are our options?” Stiles asks back.

Derek does his best to sound nonchalant when he replies, “Either go and we let him out and move on, or we forget about this and move on.”

Stiles hesitates. He recognizes that they’re not really in a position to be rescuing people. “We are in no way obligated to help him,” he starts slowly.

“No, we aren’t,” Derek agrees.

“But it’s not right and I want to get him out,” Stiles admits. “What about you? What do you wanna do? It’s not like I can just swoop in and do it on my own.”

Maybe it’s because he’s still feeling the loss of the dog and wants to compensate for not being able to save her, or maybe it’s the way Isaac’s voice sounded so hopeful, but he nods. “I want him out too,” he mutters. “I guess we’ll go get him and continue on our way.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh. “We’re turning into travelling do-gooders.”

“This isn’t going to turn into a thing,” Derek asserts.

“No,” Stiles agrees, “we’d never make it to Beacon Hills alive if we did.”

“They have mountain ash. They probably use it by the entrance and the house at night to keep all the non-humans in and out of the village. Can you break the circles?”

Stiles cracks his knuckles and nods. “Yep, just leave the mountain ash to the soft, squishy Human.”

He arches a brow.

“What?” Stiles huffs. “You’ve got your wolf strain, so you get to do all your wolf-y things like smell stuff and hear things and grow claws. I’ve got my human strain, so I get to work with mountain ash.” 

A human strain, Derek thinks, that’s probably the most dangerous strain of all.

\--

The moon is shining brightly in the night sky when they return to the village. To no surprise, there’s mountain ash and salt waiting for them at the gate. Idly, he can’t help wondering just how much salt, such a valued commodity, these villagers have wasted with their nightly rituals.

Stiles doesn’t look bothered by the sight and immediately steps forward to break the line.

With the moonlight unhindered by clouds, they weave their way around the houses, trying not to draw too close to any of them. To wake any of the villagers now would force them to abort the mission. When they arrive at the drunk’s house, he gives the door a light push to find it opening without any resistance.

Derek worries the inside of his cheek at this. The man didn’t even attempt to secure his house against intruders. Whether that was because of his alcoholism or because he kept a Strain somewhere inside, he doesn’t know, but it feels far too easy.

Stepping his head inside, he can see the man in his cot, snoring loudly, oblivious to the world. Derek wrinkles his nose in distaste. Like earlier, the drunk reeks of alcohol and vomit and the sourness of general uncleanliness and slow decay. But now, with most of the windows closed, the odour is suffocating. The smell clings to everything and it takes a moment to orientate himself.

Stiles follows him inside and huffs in disgust. He closes the door behind him and stands by one of the opened windows and waits.

Filtering out everything but the smell of mountain ash, Derek points Stiles in the direction of the corner where a deer pelt lies splayed on the floor. He watches Stiles lift it, revealing a circle of mountain ash around a small trap door leading to an underground cellar of some sort. 

Without waiting for his signal, Stiles breaks the circle and lifts the latch. He peers into the darkness and blinks, his Human eyes unable to make anything out. Suddenly, a hand shoots up and grabs Stiles by the arm and pulls him down, into the darkness. Derek reaches out and tries to pull the boy back but it’s too late.

Snarling, he shifts and leaps into the cellar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smell of blood and staleness gets to him in a way the alcohol and sourness failed to.

Plunging into the darkness, Derek narrows his eyes and scans the room while his eyes adjust. He can faintly see Stiles pressed up against a wall with a hand over his bleeding forearm, and the Strain, Isaac, standing over him with glowing yellow eyes and his bloodied claws unsheathed.

His Strain struggles for control.

Derek steps in between them with his eyes red and fangs out. He closes in on the other Strain and lets out a snarl, still mindful to not wake the man above them. It’s enough to send Isaac reeling back in fright and submission. He watches the Strain scramble backwards, hitting the wall, large golden eyes watching him but not changing back.

Even while shifted, Derek can see that it’s just a boy, probably no older than Stiles.

Suddenly, the smell of blood and staleness gets to him in a way the alcohol and sourness failed to.

He tilts his head up a few degrees, checking to make sure they didn’t wake anyone up. The man remains oblivious to the world in his drunken slumber. Satisfied, he reaches out and pulls Stiles away from the wall. He inspects the wound, and after making sure that the boy won’t keel over and pass out from blood loss, pushes him towards the ladder, urging him to climb out first.

Stiles looks him in the eye for a moment and nods, making his way back up.

Turning to Isaac, who’s still staring at him with widened eyes and the face of a Strain, it occurs to Derek then that the boy probably doesn’t know how to control his shifts yet. He frowns and retracts his fangs. It would be counterproductive to come all this way only to end up killing the boy.

“Calm down and take a deep breath. I’m not going to hurt you,” he says in a low voice. “You need to control your Strain. Concentrate on breathing.”

It takes a couple of minutes, which is far longer than Derek would’ve liked, but he can hear Stiles shuffling around above them, heartbeat dropping back to a normal pace. His patience pays off when finally, Isaac’s claws retract and his shoulders sag wearily.

“You’re the one from earlier,” Isaac whispers, eyes now wide with disbelief.

He nods.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come back,” Isaac admits.

“Well, we’re here now.” Derek shrugs and glances up again. “We don’t have time to talk. Look, you can either stay or leave this place. It’s your choice. I don’t care,” he says bluntly.

Without another word, he makes his way up the ladder to where Stiles is, still clambering about, probably scouring the hut for useful things they can bring with them. He hears Isaac scrambling up after him a moment later, desperate not to be left behind.

Once they’re out, he closes the door and pulls the pelt back over it, trying to conceal evidence of their break in—not that the man’s likely to notice any time soon. When Derek turns back around, he finds Stiles standing watch by the door with food tucked under his uninjured arm and a cloth tied carelessly around his wound. Isaac’s back turned to him, his attention honed in on the figure on the bed.

Derek wonders what kind of expression the boy’s wearing while he looks at the man who raised him and made his life a living hell the moment he turned into something other than Human. Brushing Isaac’s shoulder lightly as he walks past him, he nods at the door and steps outside to take the food from Stiles’ arms. Isaac spares him a glance and nods.

They have to move quickly.

There’s no time for goodbyes, no time for grief.

Not right now.

The three of them stand perfectly still in front of the house, on the alert for any signs of people awake. Nothing moves. The trees don’t rustle and the animals don’t make a sound. It’s as though the whole world’s holding its breath and waiting to see what they’ll do next.

They don’t bother weaving around the houses and take the shortest route to the gate.

No one wakes up and tries stops them.

Derek wonders when the villagers will notice Isaac’s disappearance or if anyone will care. He has his doubts.

Good riddance, they’ll probably say when they find out.

They return to where their belongings are stashed away and retrieve their things, ready to leave. They’re not going to risk getting caught by the villagers now after they finally got out. He glances at Isaac, noticing for the first time the shape he’s in. The boy’s wounds may have healed, but his clothes are ripped with old patchy blood stains and his feet are bare.

Stiles seems to notice as well because he’s sending Derek pointed looks and nodding at the Strain. Derek shakes his head. Not yet, he tries to convey. Even if they give Isaac a set of clothes to change into, he’ll still smell of dried blood and hurt. Their top priority right now is to wash that smell off him. They can figure out their next step afterwards.

Isaac looks shifts his gaze from him to Stiles and back, eyes full of confusion and uncertainty. There’s fear radiating off of him now that he’s outside the village, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. Unlike Stiles, Isaac will run off and disappear for good if Derek tells him to or if he makes the wrong move. That, he’s sure of. And seeing as Stiles has no intention of breaking the silence, it’s up to him to relay instructions and orders.

“You smell like blood. It’s going to attract other Strains and animals,” Derek says as way of explanation. “Is there a stream or something near here?” He can’t hear running water nearby, but the villagers have to get their water from somewhere.

“There’s a lake,” Isaac tells him apprehensively, awaiting approval for his answer. Underneath the fear, there’s a hint of reverence in his voice.

Derek doesn’t know how to react to this, so he nods and allows Isaac to lead the way.

At the lake, he instructs Isaac to go wash himself off while Stiles ruffles through their sack of clothes for spare outfits. Keeping an eye on the boy, Derek nearly does a double-take at the sheer amount of blood crusted to Isaac’s skin when he peels his shirt off. The boy’s so emaciated it makes Derek cringe. His ribs jutting out and his pelvis prominent, Derek wonders when was the last time he ate. The boy’s practically a walking carcass.

Stiles is worrying his lower lip as he pulls out a set of spare clothes and shoes and lays it on the ground closer to the water. The boy’s tall, but with the state he’s in, any clothes they give him will be too loose for him. With Isaac taken care of, he turns to Stiles and holds out his hand expectantly while digging through their bag with the other. “Arm.”

Knowing better than to protest, Stiles lets his injury be tended to.

By the time he’s finished wrapping the wound, Isaac is out of the water and looking much cleaner and a little more alive. He stares at the clothes on the ground for a moment before pulling them over his gangly limbs and making his way back over. The shoes are a little loose, but they can stuff it with leaves and rags to make it work.

It takes a moment, but eventually, Isaac musters up the courage to ask, “Who are you?”

Deciding to relieve the boy of his curiosity, Derek mutters, “Derek. And that’s Stiles.”

With that said, he turns to leave when the boy speaks up again, “What am I supposed to do now?”

“You’re free to do whatever you want,” he replies. It’s not his decision to make.

There’s a pause, then Isaac asks, sounding lost, “But where would I go?”

“Anywhere you want, I guess,” Derek answers with a shrug. 

“Then…can I come with you?”

“It won’t be safe,” he warns the boy.

“Is anywhere safe?” Isaac retorts, memories of his recent escape still fresh on his mind.

He glances over at Stiles, who arches his brows and shrugs in response.

The kid has a point.

\--

They spend the rest of the night and the next day walking in silence, stopping only in brief intervals to eat. And if Derek notices Stiles cooking more food than needed and allotting a generous portion of it to Isaac, he doesn’t comment on it.

It isn’t until Derek’s certain that they’re far away enough that they stop for the night. With summer drawing to an end, the sun has begun setting earlier and earlier with each passing day. Despite the addition of Isaac, their routine remains mostly unaffected; Stiles goes to set up wards around them while Derek lights the fire.

“If you’re coming with us, then starting tomorrow, you’re going to learn how to control your Strain. The training won’t be easy,” Derek tells Isaac, looking up momentarily from his task at hand. They can’t risk him losing control during life-or-death situations.

Isaac quickly nods in agreement. He listens to everything Derek says, seems to hang off his every word—he eats when Derek tells him to, he drinks when Derek tells him to, and now, he’s going to learn how to control the strain in his blood because Derek told him to.

He supposes it’s the boy’s way of adjusting to his new situation, which is going well with all things considered, but there’s too much unwarranted trust in the boy’s grey-blue eyes. It reminds him of Stiles’ insistent smile when they first met, and it makes him uneasy to have not just one, but two people relying on him. He wonders what Laura would think if she saw him now? She would probably coo about how proud of him she was and tease him for his lack of confidence.

A wave of longing hits him and Derek pushes the thought out of his head and returns his attention to the fire until he hears Stiles making his way back.

“Um, about Stiles…” Isaac starts. His voice is quiet and unsure, clearly struggling to get phrase whatever he’s about to say next properly, “does he speak? Because…” he runs a finger over his throat, “you know?”

Watching Stiles return and sit next to him without a word, Derek shrugs. “Maybe.” Hopefully, it won’t be like when they met, and it won’t take weeks for Stiles to grow comfortable enough to speak around Isaac. But even if that’s the case, there’s nothing he can do about it, so there’s no point in mulling over the issue.

It’ll just be quiet for a while.

Derek tries his best not to let the idea bother him and wonders when he got used to having so much dialogue in his life again.

\--

The silence is surprisingly easy to ignore between the impromptu training sessions and the occasional question from Isaac, who on most part, is still soft-spoken and hesitant. He’s been picking his questions carefully, wary about all the invisible and unspoken lines and boundaries. But he’s growing bolder and Derek’s not sure whether that’s a good or bad thing.

In the end, the lull only lasts about a week and all ends when Derek accidentally tosses Isaac into Stiles during one of their training sessions. He gets loud, undignified squawks out of both boys for his actions. They’re both on their feet in an instant, complaining to him about the unnecessarily rough treatment.

He chuffs in amusement and arches a brow at Stiles.

Isaac turns and stares when he realizes what had just happened.

Stiles brushes the dirt off his clothes and furrows his brows at the two of them. “What?” he asks, as though he hadn’t just spent the last few days hiding behind a shield of silence. He bends over and tries to check himself over, hand idly rubbing the scar across his throat. “Do I have something stuck on me or something?”

Derek shakes his head and cuts in before Isaac can ask about the scar, “It’s nothing.” Refusing to acknowledge the way his shoulders loosens up a little at the sound of Stiles’ voice, he turns back to Isaac. “Let’s try that again.”

Isaac lets out a quiet groan while Stiles laughs.

“Stop whining or we’ll stop and just train for the rest of the day,” he growls.

“Don’t let him fool you. Derek sounds mean and scary, but he’s all growl and no bite,” Stiles reassures the other boy.

He frowns and narrows his eyes. “Stiles, is this your way of telling me you want to train with us?”

Stiles’ eyes widen and he takes a step back with his hands out in defeat. “Sorry, Isaac, looks like you’re on your own.”

“Well, your support was short-lived,” Isaac mutters with a scoff.

It’s the boldest thing Isaac has said since joining them, and Derek’s almost proud of him for the dry comment. Stiles, on the other hand, seems less pleased about it. “Hey, I’m just the magic guy! It’s not my fault you need the rigorous training on how to be a Strain!”

And suddenly, the previous dead forest seems to come alive with the sound of their voices.

\--

“What exactly are you two?” Isaac asks them that night, hungrily tearing away at the roasted rabbit in his hands.

Derek wonders exactly how he’s supposed to answer the question. What are they? They’re many things. They’re travellers. They’re thieves. They’re traders. They’re trappers. They’re a Pure Strain and a Human. They’re unwanted. They’re survivors of things they would rather not talk about. They are what they are. And at the end of the day, they’re really just Derek and Stiles.

Isaac seems to understand this and clarifies, “How’d you get past the mountain ash? Was it just magic? I mean, you’re definitely not Human.”

He gestures at Stiles. “No, but he is.”

Stiles spares a moment to look up from the fire and smiles tightly. “Soft, squishy Human right here. I deal with the magic _and_ the mountain ash.”

“Oh,” Isaac considers this for a moment and nods. “Okay. So if Stiles is Human, does that mean you were turned or…?”

“I’m a Pure Strain,” Derek tells him with a shrug. Despite having been turned, Isaac still considers himself Human more often than not—not that Derek can blame him. After all, he had spent most of his life as a Human and then was locked up in the dark the second he changed. How can he be expected to know anything? “I was born this way.”

Isaac blinks a couple times, eyes wide with fascination like a child being told a story from one of their fairy tale books. “I used to hear about Pure Strains, but I didn’t know if they were real. I mean, in the village, we had rogues and Strains, but they were always…” he pauses when the realization enters his head, “like me, I guess.”

He allows Isaac to mull over that thought for a moment before muttering, “I don’t know about other Strains, but we mostly kept to ourselves and our own kind.” He doesn’t bother specifying who ‘we’ are.

_Were._

“It was just safer that way,” Derek concludes, his throat tight and chest constricted.

Their precaution didn’t do them much good in the end though, his traitorous mind adds.

But they didn’t change their ways—not even after his Day Zero, he and Laura kept to themselves, interacting with others only when strictly necessary.

“We’re pack, Derek, and pack take care of each other. Even if pack means just the two of us,” Laura had told him, with her arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of us, little bro.”

Was it still a pack when there was only him left?

He wishes he could ask her.

Isaac opens his mouth to ask another question but a sharp glance from Stiles causes him to think better of it.

He pretends not to notice.

“Is being a Pure Strain really that different?” Isaac asks instead. The question has Stiles looking up again, only this time, this eyes are trained on Derek, watching him curiously.

Derek frowns and shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to describe what it’s like to be able to feel his Strain so strongly, the comfort of knowing he’s never truly alone or isolated. He doesn’t have the words to describe how it feels to shift and to run through the woods with his pack around him, and the freedom he felt to be tied down to so little. How can he ever teach someone about the thrill of a hunt and the longing for pack?

“It’s all I’ve ever known.”

“Are you ever ashamed of it?” Isaac asks, in a softer voice. “I mean, until spring, all I’ve only ever known about Strains came from the stories the villagers told us. We learnt to hate them. I spent my whole life believing Strains were monsters. And now, I _am_ one, but I don’t feel any different…”

His first reaction is to deny the claim. But if he’s being honest, it’s hard not to feel a twinge of shame when everyone around him seems to see an abomination in him. It’s hard to believe his mother’s words when the rest of the world seems to be telling him otherwise.

“It’s all I’ve ever known,” he says again for lack of better things to say. To change the subject, he turns to Stiles and asks, “What’s it like to be Human?”

Is it really so great, he doesn’t ask out loud.

But judging by the look on Stiles’ face, he seems to have heard it anyway.

\--

Later that night, Isaac falls asleep, curled up against the trunk of a tree. Never having needed to be a particularly light sleeper while tucked away safely in his village, the boy is completely oblivious to his surroundings.

It’s a habit he’ll have to be trained out of, Derek notes to himself.

With Isaac out for the night, that leaves him and Stiles, who’s idly prodding at their small fire with a stick, watching it catch on fire and then putting it out again.

“Being human,” Stiles starts, his eyes never leaving the fire, “is pretty nice, I guess.”

Derek arches a brow, waiting for him to continue.

“Aside from the jumpiness, the constant, overwhelming fear that something terrible’s about to happen,” Stiles mutters softly, but he hears it anyway. “There’s probably a word for it, but all I can think of right now is extreme fear, and that’s not exactly right. It’s not exactly wrong either, I guess—since we’re not like you. We don’t have the abilities that Strains and New Humans do, so maybe this fear’s a survival thing, because at the end of the day, what else do we have? All we can do is keep going.”

Looking at Stiles and Isaac, Derek can’t help but draw comparisons between Humans and all the animals in the forests. For the sake of survival, some of them have grouped together, some of them lash out blindly, and some simply opt for staying out of sight and remaining silent, because sometimes, invisibility’s the best protection.

He’s never noticed what fearful creatures Humans were until now.

It’s not an emotion he often feels, if at all, and he doesn’t understand it.

Stiles shoots him a knowing look.

All he can do is shrug in response.

“I used to hate Strains,” Stiles admits after a brief pause. “I was terrified of them.”

Derek looks over, slightly surprised by the sudden confession.

“Used to,” Stiles emphasizes, shooting him a meaningful look. “The thing is, though, at home, we never cared whether you were a Strain or Human as long as you made yourself useful and weren’t being an ass to others. But then a Strain killed my mom. It bit her and she wasn’t compatible and her body couldn’t adjust to it. It wasn’t a quick and painless death. And Strains, I thought they were the worst things in the world. I hated them so much because if it wasn’t their fault, it was mine for wanting to go on a walk, for letting it happen.”

He doesn’t say anything because he knows it won’t help.

Words never helped him after his Day Zero.

“After that, I kind of went on a personal vendetta against all Strains. It didn’t work very well though, since my dad was the head of Beacon Hills and he wasn’t about to kick anyone out just because his stupid kid was suddenly afraid of Strains. I tried to argue that we were putting people— _Humans_ in danger by letting Strains live with us. He asked me if mom had turned, what I would’ve done. I didn’t have an answer for him and got angry instead. I kept being a jerk to all the Strains in town for such a long time…and then Scott turned.”

Stiles lets out a sardonic laugh. “I avoided him at first, you know? My best friend in the world—my _bro_. I was afraid of him, and I avoided him because I thought he’d turned into a monster. ‘I’m still me, Stiles. Please, just look me in the eyes! I’m not going to hurt you! I’m still me!’

“He used those exact words when he begged me to give him a chance. He kept trying to tell me that he was still the same person, only with less breathing problems and a better nose, but I didn’t want to listen. I didn’t believe him. It wasn’t until I got in trouble and Scott stepped in and saved me that I finally listened. In the end, Scott forgave me because he’s Scott, but that doesn’t change the fact that I was an asshole and I’m not proud about that.”

“I guess that makes you just as bad as me then,” Derek mutters without thinking.

Stunned, Stiles stares at him with wide eyes and jaws agape.

And not for the first time that day, he wishes Laura, or just _someone,_ was around to do the talking and the comforting.

But then the boy smiles. “Yeah, I guess we’re equally terrible people then. We should start a club like in _Calvin and Hobbes_. Do you think Isaac will wanna join?”

\--

They continue their routine until leaves start fluttering to the ground. Derek turns to the other two and announces that they’ll have to look for a place to spend the winter soon. He remembers the first winter after his Day Zero, when he and Laura started the search too late and ended up hiding away in a Strain village they came across, at the mercy of strangers’ kindness.

“Does Derek ever smile?” Isaac asks, just half a whisper. Even though he’s accepted and adapted well to his strain, he still thinks like a Human and underestimates both Derek and his own enhanced senses.

Stiles glances over at him, no doubt remembering the fake front he had put on in Isaac’s village. He turns back to Isaac with a shrug. “Maybe.”

It’s then that Derek realizes that it’s been a year since the boy got thrown into his life. A year ago, he still had the dog and the cabin. The thought astonishes him because while it feels far shorter than a year, it also feels like he’s been travelling with Stiles and Isaac for far longer.

Their scents have all mingled and they bicker all the time.

And some point during their travels, he started thinking of them as pack.

\--

In the end, they don’t find any suitable shelter in the woods and have to risk venturing closer to the long grey road that stretched across the land, connecting all the Dead Zones together. The trees are sparse by the road, but they finally find what they’re looking for.

The large wooden building with a metal roof looks like a haven despite its worn exterior. There are holes in the wall and a few on the roof, but they’re minor problems. With his mind made up, Derek leads the two to the building and pries the doors open.

The ancient hinges groan and creak in protest, but they eventually give way, allowing them inside. The three of them can only stand at the door way and stare in awe at the sheer size of the place. The inside is dimly lit by the sunlight streaming in through the holes in the wall and the windows from up above. There’s hay everywhere, some in piles and some plastered to the ground, rotten from years of exposure to the weather. He tries to get a better sense of the place, but the smell of mustiness is overpowering.

From above, he can hear birds cooing and squawking, wings flapping in alarm and displeasure. Looking up, Derek can see the wooden beams holding up the entire building. Although certain parts look more eroded than others, he has no doubt that it’ll survive one more winter. Convinced that the place won’t collapse on him, he ventures inside. The sides of the building have been divided into wooden stalls, which once must have housed livestock—some of the gates were even still attached.

It’s even better than he had expected. They’ll be able to use the wood from the stalls for repairs and tinder, so all he really has to worry about now is food.

Setting down their belongings, he turns back to Stiles and Isaac and nods. “Let’s get to work.”

\--

Winter passes more quickly than he has ever remembered in the warded barn.

The bear skin rug lies unfurled near the middle of the place along with newly acquired deer and rabbit pelts and the fire. Their food supply is stacked up next to a hole in the wall that’s been sealed up by the snow. There’s a bucket of freshly melted snow-water and piles of books stacked by the pelts for reading and teaching since Stiles has taken up the task of teaching Isaac letters.

Unlike the cabin, with no overhead above the door to deter the snow, they have effectively been snowed in, but the place is spacious enough to not feel claustrophobic. And luckily, they still have windows to dispose their waste out of and large cracks in the walls on the other side of the building to retrieve snow for water.

It’s comfortable and they have everything they need here.

Surveying the barn and finding nothing amiss, his Strain rumbles in contentment.

\--

Before they realize, the snow turns into rain and a new year has started. Impatience and restlessness begins gnawing away at Derek as he waits for the snow to thaw and the heavy rains to let up. He starts up Isaac’s training again as an outlet for his excess energy and it’s enough to distract them both until the snow has melted enough to push the barn doors open again. They’re greeted with the sight of large puddles, frost bitten plants and muddy patches of snow. The sky is dark grey and their visibility’s severely limited by the downpour.

He’ll never understand how people find spring beautiful.

Unlike last year, Stiles appears content to stand by the door and breathe in the fresh air while watching the rain fall. No doubt, he’s thinking about Laura and how just last year, she was still alive and chasing him around through the puddles.

She would’ve liked the barn, Derek thinks.

It takes a couple more days for the rain to let up enough to venture outside for more than a minute at a time. By now, they’re starting to run low on food and his Strain is aching to go on a hunt. With his mind made up, he informs the two of his intentions and steps outside. Hopefully, he’ll be able to catch something and bring it back before it starts raining again.

Jogging out into the forest, he shucks his clothes off and hand them up on a low lying branch and shifts into his full Strain form. He refrains from howling and instead, stretches out his limbs, making a pleased noise as he does. Taking a deep breath, he allows his Strain to take over and disappears into the forest.

\--

Hindered by the unfamiliar terrain and with many animals still weathering out the rain, the hunt takes longer than expected. He still manages to take down a deer and drag it back towards his clothes, but the rain’s already started up again by the time he gets back.

Having ran a sufficient amount, he shifts back and quickly pulls his clothes back on and wipes the blood off around his mouth with the back of his hand.

Through the heavy downpour, he doesn’t hear the sound of a crossbow being released until it’s too late. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who got a [tumblr account](http://selfish-cat.tumblr.com/)??


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are times when he wonders how different things would’ve been if it had been someone else who had survived.

_“Hello, boy. I’m afraid I’m a little lost.”_

_“Derek, is something wrong?”_

_“A lone Purger?”_

_“Did you do as practiced?”_

_“Will it be enough?”_

_“Humans can’t possibly track us from so far away.”_

_“Derek, they can’t get us here, right?”_

_“I think we’re safe.”_

_“Laura, go patrol with Derek.”_

_“Come on, little bro, let’s go.”_

_“Laura! The house!”_

_“But how—?”_

_“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”_

_“Good riddance.”_

\--

He wakes with a sharp intake of air and a hollow feeling in his chest.

There are times when he wonders how different things would’ve been if it had been someone else who had survived. Uncle Peter might have tried to seek vengeance on the Purgers responsible. Cora might have convinced him to travel south instead of north because she’s always liked the south more. He has trouble imagining his parents separated from one another. And his grandmother—well, he likes to think that no one would’ve survived her wrath. 

But that’s not how the story played out.

Struggling to fully return back to reality, the first thing he takes notice of is the soreness in his shoulders. His arms are suspended above him and his fingers have gone numb from the shackles wrapped around his wrists. There’s no pain in his side, so the arrow wasn’t laced with anything and whatever wound was inflicted has healed. 

Still alive.

He’s immediately overwhelmed by a mix of relief and disappointment.

Without lifting his head or moving, his ears pick up the sound of water dripping somewhere and someone breathing next to him. Everything about this screams Purgers. The place smells of mistletoe, wolfsbane, mountain ash, burnt flesh, blood, and Strains.

It makes his stomach churn and he instinctively swallows hard.

After waiting a moment longer, he feels safe to assume that he’s been left alone with the other Strain and lifts his head to take a look. It’s a boy, probably no older than Stiles, dangling from the ceiling in a similar manner. 

The boy doesn’t look over or acknowledge his presence.

That doesn’t bother Derek as he tests the chain around his wrists and legs. He cringes when the burning sensation of wolfsbane on open wounds suddenly hits his previous numb limbs. Of course they’re lined with wolfsbane, he mentally scolds himself.

The rain outside has stopped and he wonders how long he’s been here and his thoughts stray to Stiles and Isaac. A Human and a New Strain—no, two _boys_ —stuck in the wilderness where rabid animals and rogue Strains roam free. Stiles would no doubt get the stupid idea in his head to try and rescue Derek. The thought worries him and he tugs at the chains again.

“It’s no use,” the other Strain tells him, his voice calm and levelled.

Derek grunts and ceases his efforts. “How long have you been here?”

“A day or two? They’re looking for a third Strain.” Despite the steadiness of his voice, there’s underlying worry in it not dissimilar to his own.

He arches a brow. “You were travelling with someone?”

The Strain nods. “They got me after I came out of hibernation.”

A bear Strain then.

“I was bringing food back,” Derek offers after a moment of discomfort, feeling obligated to return the favour of shared information, “for my pack.”

Pack.

The word rolls off his tongue unnaturally. It’s something he thinks about every day, but it’s been so long since he’s had a chance to say it _aloud_.

Pack.

“Wolf, hmm?”

“Yeah.”

Apparently neither of them are particularly talkative.

There’s a long lull of silence between them, then the Strain says, “I’m Boyd.”

“Derek,” he replies, testing the chains again, ignoring the pain shooting down his arms. He needs to get out before the Purgers return.

“There’s no point. They circled the place with mountain ash,” Boyd tells him.

That makes him stop struggling. Even if he frees himself, he won’t be able to get out of the place. Great. So there’s really nothing he can do but wait to be rescued or killed—whichever comes first.

Glancing around, he takes note of their surroundings. They’re in an old barn or warehouse of some kind—much like the one he passed the winter in only more worn down. It’s probably one of those buildings he had spotted closer to the long stretch of cracked, grey cement. Looking up at the worn out wooden beams above them, the ones supporting the chains and their weight. 

Before he can do anything else, he hears the sound of footsteps approaching and tenses. Derek considers his options and decides to keep his eyes open. There’s no advantage to feigning sleep. He doubts the Purgers will be considerate enough to leave him alone if they see him unconscious. Besides, he wants to look whoever’s responsible in the eye.

A man’s voice immediately fills the building, bouncing off the time-worn walls. “Did you have a nice nap?” he asks him with an ugly sneer in his voice, spitting thrice on the floor.

Neither of them answer.

The Purger shrugs, unfazed by their silence. “Today’s been a really good day. Look, I brought you two a new friend,” he tells him as two other men drag in an unconscious Strain, still shifted.

Derek tenses.

It’s a rogue Strain.

The man notices his wariness and smirks. He walks over and pats Derek’s cheek condescendingly. “Don’t worry, we’ll chain him up nice and tight to make sure he can’t get to you.”

He lengthens his fangs and lunges forward to snap at the man.

The Purger jumps back with a yelp. He spits again and takes out a knife. “You’ll regret that,” he snaps. “You’re lucky we need you alive for tonight. Your life will finally be worth something when we cut your throat open, Strain. I’ll even give you the honours of putting an end to your miserable life myself.” Then he smiles. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a bit of fun until then, hmm?”

The next thing he knows, he’s being sliced open and there’s salt being rubbed into the wounds before they can fully heal. He thrashes and yanks against his chains, wanting nothing more than to tear then man apart. 

\--

Derek opens his eyes again when he hears snarling and chains clanking. Immediately alert, he turns his head to see the rogue Strain the Purgers had brought in thrashing against its restraints. It’s chained up next to Boyd, who’s watching him back with weary eyes.

He starts scanning the building again and loops up at the beams above them. An idea starts to form in his head and he gives the chains a sharp tug. The ancient wooden beam shakes and creaks in protest. 

“Hey, was that it? How many of them are there altogether?” he asks.

“Around six, I think.”

He nods. That’s doable. Even when armed, they’re still just soft, squishy humans, as Stiles would say. “Are you any good at fighting?” he asks.

Boyd shoots him a skeptical look but nods. “I can hold my own.”

“Good.” They’ll deal with the immediate threat of Purgers first then figure out how to leave the circle after. He tugs at his chains with all his weight and the wood creaks again, soft cracks reverberating through the building. Boyd’s eyes light up in understanding.

The Strain next to him lets out a loud snarl and snaps his jaws, still tugging at his bonds. The man’s completely succumbed to the strain in his blood. Derek studies him for a moment. He’s a wildcard. There’s no telling who he’ll attack first. Chances are, he’ll take out his anger on the Purgers for what they did, but he can’t bank on that.

“We’ll do it when they return. I don’t want to deal with that one just yet. It’ll be dark soon,” he says with certainty. He can feel the full moon drawing closer. It makes his Strain restless.

Stiles would probably make werewolf jokes if he knew.

Derek wonders what Stiles and Isaac are doing now. Although he wants to believe they’re searching for him, it’s been nearly a day and a seed of doubt has sprouted in his mind. Maybe they assumed him dead and moved on. Stiles would never survive on his own, but he has Isaac now. Isaac. A Strain who still thinks he’s Human. Their chances of survival improve drastically with Derek around. Would that be the reason they come looking for him? If they come looking for him at all.

He’s come to see them as pack, but he wonders what they see _him_ as.

A guide? A guardian? An ally? A tool?

Well, he was never raised to be a leader. That had always been Laura’s job. All he can do is try his best to do what she would’ve done and fill her shoes. He wonders if it’s noticeable to the boys.

The thought makes him uncomfortable.

Soon enough, as he speculated, the hunters return. He nods at Boyd and together, they jump and pull at the chains with all the strength they can muster. The beams crack loudly. One of the hunters lets out a yell and starts running towards them. 

“Again!” Derek orders.

This time, the beam snaps and crumbles under the pressure. Without waiting, Derek immediately shifts and pounces on the nearest hunter, plunging his claws into his torso. All around him, he can hear the panicked voices of the Purgers and the feral snarl of the rogue. Extracting his hand, he seeks out the next closest Human.

It’s the man from earlier.

Despite looking terrified, the man unsheathes his knife and lunges forward to attack. Derek dodges the attack easily despite the restraints around his limbs. He rips the knife out of the man’s hand and embeds it in his stomach. The Purger lets out a pained grunt and topples over.

Suddenly, he gets tackled from the side by the rogue. They tumble around for a bit, a mess of chains, claws, and blood. Fueled by madness, the rogue is stronger than he expected and manages to pin him to the ground. It’s repeatedly lunging for his throat while its claws dig into his flesh. He lets out a roar and struggles to keep its fangs away from his throat.

In the back of his mind, he sees Laura and wonders if she had struggled like this against the Strain that took her life.

A sudden, loud bang echoes off the walls of the building and the rogue tumbles over for a moment with a yelp and a figure rushes over to attack. Shocked by whatever it was that hit the rogue, Derek turns his head towards the entrance to see Stiles standing there with a gun in his hands while another figure rushes past him and goes straight towards the hunters. On the ground, wrestling with the rogue, is Isaac with his claws and fangs out, just like Derek had taught him to.

Derek wastes no time in reaching out towards the distracted rogue and slashing its throat. It lets go of Isaac and falls onto its knees with a strangled snarl. Clutching at its neck desperately, it lets out a gargled noise before slumping over and finally going still.

Sure that the Strain’s been taken care of, he looks over at Boyd only to find the rest of the Purgers taken care of. Some of them have been taken care of with a clean cut to the back of their necks while others were clearly mauled to death.

Stiles rushes to his and Isaac’s side but his attention’s drawn to the newcomer who’s now at Boyd’s side. It’s only when he sees that she’s checking Boyd over for injuries that he turns his attention back to his pack. He nods at the fallen rogue and mutters, “Nice work, you two.”

Shrugging, Stiles gives him a pat on the arm.

He takes in the unspoken messages of the gesture and nods in acknowledgement. “How’d you find me?”

“You didn’t come back and we got worried,” Isaac explains for the both of them. The words ‘we got worried’ warm Derek’s heart in a way he’ll never admit to. “So we went out to look for you and nearly got killed by Erica over there, but then it turned out that we were all—”

“Being reunited with your great and wise leader and reminiscing about good times is nice and all,” Erica interrupts, tossing the keys to the shackles over as she walks by, “but we should probably get out of here before the blood attracts hungry things. Something’s in for a feast tonight and I don’t want to see what that something is.”

Derek arches a brow at the confidence the girl’s emitting but she makes a valid point. “She’s right,” he concedes, undoing the metal restraints around his legs first. “Let’s go. You can fill me in after.”

The moon is shining brightly in the sky when they venture back outside. Out in the open and visible to all, none of them say anything on their way back to the barn in fear of attracting unwanted attention.

When they’re finally back, safely tucked away behind the four walls of the building, Derek reaches over and soaks the tattered remains of his shirt in the pot of collected rain water and proceeds to wipe the dried blood off his body. Next to him, he can see Boyd doing the same thing while the other three start the fire. When he’s finally got the blood off, he walks over to join the others.

There’s a round of brief introductions that only go so far as to establish each other’s names. Stiles has pulled out clothes and the last of their preserved meat for him. He nods his thanks and gives half of it to Boyd before eating it cold. In the back of his mind, he wonders what happened to the deer he caught and frowns at the idea of having to hunt again after what happened less than a day ago.

“Was that a rogue Strain back there?” Isaac asks.

He nods, finishing off the last bite of meat.

“So you’re the residential expert then,” Erica mutters. “How do they become like that?”

Derek regards her for a moment, still not entirely sure what to make of her. “It’s what happens when they’re overwhelmed by their Strains. I don’t know all the details, but it mostly happens in Humans who’ve just been turned. They don’t adjust properly or fast enough and it takes over,” he explains. “They’re basically creatures that run on nothing but instincts.”

Everyone except Boyd turns to look at him; he must’ve been a born Strain, Derek deduces.

“What happens if a rogue Strain turns a Human?” Erica asks. “Do they automatically turn rogue or…?”

He ponders the question for a moment and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen it happen.”

No one presses the subject any further.

The next thing he knows, he’s curled up on the bear rug with Stiles sprawled on top of him as usual and drifting in and out of consciousness. A little away, he can hear Erica and Isaac conversing.

“…you read?”

“No, why would…? Who…?”

“Stiles…taught me.”

“…speaks?”

“…I bet…if you want?”

“Maybe…nice family here.”

\--

Derek doesn’t wake up again until morning and the smell of breakfast. The confusion doesn’t come until the scent of strangers and the realization that they’re out of food hits him. His eyes snapping open, he sits up and scans the area for the intruders. He hadn’t meant to sleep so deeply and wonders how that even happened. Stiles reaches over and nudges him with his foot and shoots him a pointed look. It’s only then that he realizes his eyes have bled red and his claws are out.

Retracting his claws, he rubs his eyes and shifts back, still groggy from sleep. “When’d we get food?”

Stiles nods towards the sound of squabbling coming from the entrance. Someone shifts from his right and he looks over to see Boyd, slowly sitting up. The memories come flooding back and he turns his attention to the doorway where Erica and Isaac are carrying water back.

“Oh, looks like they’re all awake now,” Erica coos with a teasing smile on her lips. “Did you boys have a nice sleep?”

For a moment, Derek’s reminded so much of his sisters and he has to physically turn away to stop himself from staring.

“Morning,” Boyd mutters.

“We managed to track down an old deer this morning and Erica made me carry it back,” Isaac tells him, just short of outright complaining.

She lets out a laugh and gives Isaac a slap on the back.

Even though he knows they’re out of food and the Purgers have been taken care of, he still turns to Stiles with an arched brow as if to ask, ‘You let them go hunting on their own?’ Stiles holds his gaze and the two of them have a short-lived, silent argument before Derek lets out a huff and pushes the boy away half-heartedly in defeat.

“Good work, you two,” Derek concedes.

Isaac looks pleased with the praise while Erica shrugs it off. “We all need to eat,” she reasons. “Hope you’re not picky about your food. That deer was pretty old. I’m surprised it survived the winter.”

The meat _is_ tough, but it’s not the worst he’s had, and he knows better than to complain about food when they could all so easily be starving right now. It takes a while, but they work through the meat and devour a good portion of the deer and smoke the rest and pack up what meagre supplies they have left.

“We need to move on in case any friends of those Purgers come looking for them. And we’ll need to head back towards the forests and find a village to trade with,” Derek tells his pack, slinging the bag over his shoulders. “I’ll go hunting later, but we need bread and vegetables. Hopefully we’ll be able to set up camp somewhere before it starts raining again.” Then he notices Isaac glancing over at the other two and asks, “What is it?”

Isaac stares at his feet and hesitates. “It’s just…”

“We want to come with you,” Erica announces, looking him in the eyes unflinchingly. “There’s safety in numbers, right? Boyd and I can look after ourselves just fine. We can hunt and fight and everything else, but we don’t have anywhere to go. Let us come with you. We can help each other out.”

Although a part Derek wants to say no because he doesn’t want to be responsible for any more people than he already is, another part of him is saying yes to more company, to more help.

His Strain’s saying yes to more _pack_.

He turns to Stiles who shrugs, then he turns back to Erica and mutters, “Do what you want.”

All four of them smile at him and he knows he’s made the right decision. Walking out the barn’s doors one last time, Derek looks up at the grey skies and lets out a half-hearted sigh.

A Human, a wolf, a coyote, and now a mountain lion and a bear—this is what a ‘zoo’ must’ve been like, he thinks.

He remembers reading about those in his grandmother’s journal.

\--

Weeks pass and Erica and Boyd turn out to be great assets to their group. It takes a while, but Stiles eventually starts talking again and takes up the task of teaching the two to read. Isaac grows especially close with them and, after ‘graduating’ from his training, starts accompanying them on hunts. Boyd with his silent but solid presence and Erica with her liveliness, they feel like they _belong_ , and Derek finds himself adjusting to the new additions to the pack more quickly than expected.

The pair have wildly different stories. Boyd lost his family to a harsh winter while Erica left hers willingly.

 “It was the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Erica tells them when they’re all sitting by the fire one night. The moon is shining brightly in the sky and the stars are out. The only trace left of winter and endless rainstorms is the cool breeze that blows past them every once in a while. “When I was a Human, I was weak. Sick. Useless to everyone, even myself. You wouldn’t have recognized me then. The people in my village treated me like I was nothing, and my parents were usually busy tending to their fields, so I was left alone. I don’t think anyone ever noticed when I left the village that day.

“I knew it was dangerous to wander outside the village, but I didn’t care. The Strain came out of nowhere and attacked me from behind. I don’t even know if I fainted from the attack or from my illness, but to be honest, I think I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to go back home. But I didn’t die. And when I woke up, I just felt…stronger. Suddenly, I could see all these things I couldn’t before, I felt like I could actually walk around without collapsing. I guess, in a word, it was transformative.”

Her wistful smile disappears and twists into something more bitter. “When the villagers found out, they blamed me for getting attacked and expelled me from the village. My own parents turned their backs to me. I went from being nothing to a monster. And for what? For getting better. For being cured of a disease that probably would’ve kill me off by now. So I left and then I met Boyd and then you guys.” She smiles. “Can’t really complain about the outcome, can I? What’s so great about being Human anyway?—nothing personal, Stiles.”

Stiles shrugs lazily. “Don’t worry about it.” He’s leaning against Derek and carving runes into one of the knives with a rock while Derek prods at the kindling. It’s gotten warmer, but not warm enough for them to get through the night without a fire.

“Hey, Stiles, have you ever considered turning?” Isaac asks.

Derek turns his head and glances over at the boy, who is no doubt thinking about his mother, and gives him a light nudge to stop him from dwelling on the memories. Stiles tilts his head back and pushes back against him gratefully before answering, “Yeah, I mean, I’ve thought about it before, but I think I’ll pass. Someone’s gotta deal with the mountain ash for you Strains, right, Catwoman?”

Erica scoffs at the comic book-inspired nickname. “Whatever you say, Batman.”

The conversation turns more lighthearted after that.

It’s easy and natural, and it makes Derek wonder just how long it can last.

\--

As much as he enjoys the additional company, there are still times when he welcomes the silence that comes when the three move ahead to scout for villages and Dead Zones since they crossed a strip of grey road a few days ago. It was littered with empty metal boxes—‘cars’, his brain supplies—some were upturned, and others were blackened from fire. The five of them stood at by the edge and stared down the road for a long while before finally mustering up the courage to cross it, tense and wary until they reached they reached the forest on the other side safely.

“Hey, Derek?” Stiles says from beside him.

He turns his head and arches a brow. “Hn?”

“What do you think happened to all the people who used to own those cars?” Stiles asks. It’s clearly been on his mind since they crossed the road.

“I don’t know,” Derek answers. “Whatever happened on Day Zero, probably.”

Whatever happened that day must’ve been terrible if even those metal boxes couldn’t keep the people safe and had to be abandoned, he thinks.

“Imagine what it must’ve been like, travelling in one of those things. I wonder how they work,” Stiles says. “How fast do you think they went? Do you think they were faster than ‘airplanes’?”

“I can’t make the comparison. I don’t know how fast cars _or_  airplanes went,” he points out.

Stiles huffs, “That’s not the point. Just use your imagination. I bet they could’ve gotten all the way to Beacon Hills before winter last year.”

Derek looks up at the sky with his brows furrowed. He can’t even begin to imagine what airplanes were like or how blocks of metal managed to stay afloat in the sky. Sure, there are pictures in some of the books in their bag, but the only things he’s ever seen flying in the sky are birds, and even those are rare.

“I guess? Cora had this toy car that Uncle Peter managed to get from this trader when she was little. She was obsessed with it and we couldn’t pry it out of her hands unless she was asleep—and even then, it was risky. She and Laura used to get into arguments about how to play with it properly even though Laura was twice her age.”

He remembers her ‘driving’ it around the kitchen and across the walls. At one point, she even climbed onto his shoulders and made him walk around the house so that she could fly her car around. He remembers Laura trying to tell her that that’s not how cars worked and that they probably needed to stay on the ground, but Cora simply crossed her arms and demanded proof. And when the three of them turned to their grandmother for an answer, she merely let out a laugh and left the room without a word.

Cora would be about Stiles’ age now—if she were alive.

Stiles leans over and bumps him on the arm as a gesture of camaraderie. “Sounds like you had quite the family.”

Derek chuffs and shrugs, his lips curling up a fraction. “Yeah. They were.” He almost says “You would’ve liked them” but catches himself before the words leave his mouth.

“I only had my parents, but Scott and his mom were kind of like an extended family to us,” Stiles offers. “My dad had this badge for being the head of the town. It said ‘Sheriff. Beacon County.’ and it was the first thing I ever learnt to read. Me and Scott, they taught us to read together but it was never really his thing, except scary stories. We had this one book about ghosts and we always read it together because he’d get scared afterwards, you know, back in the day.”

He still doesn’t know how or why Stiles left Beacon Hills, but he doesn’t want to be the one to ask the question. So he distracts himself with other thoughts. “Ghosts, hmm?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, I remember there was this one story about a white lady that haunted this building…”

Derek wonders if ghosts fall under the category of ‘superstition’ that his father had warned him about, but he that doesn’t stop him from enjoying listening to Stiles retell the tale.

\--

They’ve walked for a good while when there’s a noise catches his attention. He immediately halts and grabs Stiles’ arm to stop him. Sniffing the air, it’s not a scent he recognizes. “Run!” With a growl, Derek shifts pushes the boy out of the way just as a creature leaps out from behind a tree and he leaps out of the way of the attack.

Getting a good look at the creature, Derek furrows his brows in confusion and wariness. They’ve fought off a couple Strains on their way here, but none have ever looked quite like this creature before them.

Then he notices the stinging sensation on his neck and he instinctively reaches up to touch it. His hand comes back wet with blood, but the wound’s already healed so he doesn’t give it a second thought and tries lunge for an attack. Instead, his knees buckle and he loses all control over his limbs as he collapses onto the floor. The next thing he knows, Stiles falls on top of him, equally paralyzed. He lets out a grunt at the sudden heaviness and glares helplessly at their attacker.

The creature takes a step towards them and Derek growls, keeping his claws out despite being unable to use them. For a moment, the creature perks up and looks into the distance, a conflicted expression flashing briefly on its face. Then, turning back to them, it lets out a hiss of warning before taking off and disappearing away into the forest.

When he’s sure that they’ve been left alone, Derek quickly assesses the situation. Testing the mobility of all his body parts, he finds himself paralyzed from the neck down. So they’ve been paralyzed but not poisoned, it seems.

“It’s gone,” he tells Stiles, who’s draped on top of him, facing away from the direction the creature came from. The added weight of the boy causes something in the bag to dig uncomfortably into his back, but it’s still ignorable for now.

“Oh thank god,” Stiles groans. “What _was_ that thing?”

“A Strain. I’ve never seen one like it before.” He takes a deep breath and lets out a howl. Hopefully, one of the others will hear it and come back before something else gets to them.

Stiles heaves a sigh, “Do you think it’ll come back?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like it. You should’ve ran when I told you to,” he hisses.

“In case you didn’t notice, _Derek_ , I was down, like, a second after you,” Stiles protests, voice partially muffled against his shirt.

“Yeah, but you didn’t even _try_ to get away!” Derek snaps.

“Well, I wasn’t about to just leave you there at the mercy of whatever that was!”

“So you _weren’t_ going to run.”

“I—” Stiles pauses, “ah, crap. I guess that depends on how you define ‘run’?”

“Stiles,” he growls.

“Oh my god, where’s Isaac and them?” If they weren’t paralyzed from the neck down, Derek knows Stiles would’ve thrown his arms in the air in defeat like he always does.

It’s really not the time to be arguing, but a win is a win. Besides, talking is good. Talking means noises to scare smaller animals away, and it distracts them from fear, which attracts the attention of larger, more dangerous predators—and that’s the last thing they want to do in their current situation.

\--

He doesn’t know how long they lie there for, but the discomfort in his back’s downright painful now. They’ve been trying nonstop to move their limbs and so far, they seem to have regained some movement in their digits, which is reassuring because it means the paralysis is temporary, but is not very helpful overall. He thought about trying to trigger his enhanced healing abilities by digging his claws into his thigh but decided against it, bleeding and smelling of blood will do them more harm than good.

Suddenly, Derek can hear the sound of approaching footsteps. They’re coming from the wrong direction to be Isaac, Erica, and Boyd. Tensing as much as he can, he glances down at Stiles, willing his limbs to move so that he can drag them to safety. Eventually, whatever it is, it’s drawn close enough that even Stiles can hear it. The boy’s heart speeds up, pounding so hard that Derek can barely hear anything else over it. It’s been awhile since he last heard Stiles’ heart speed up from fear and anticipation, and he hasn’t missed it in the least.

He’s about to tell Stiles to calm himself down when two figures emerge from the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the semester! Yay! My brain crashed and died after writing a billion papers, but it's finally (mostly) over!
> 
> If you want to see how skewed our interpretations and perceptions of _stuff_ can get, I'd suggest reading the article "Body Ritual among the Nacirema" by Horace Miner, if you haven't already. Parts of it are kind of old school, but still fun to read. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Day Zero was the day the war ended,” she answers, “at the cost of the world.”

Derek stares at the two as they come into view. It’s a girl and boy duo. They don’t look like they belong out in the wilderness with their impractical looking clothes and the way they carry themselves. The boy appears to be a New Human while the girl’s a Strain. They smell of things he can’t name, but more alarmingly, they smell like the Strain that attacked them earlier.

“Looks like we missed him again,” the girl says with her hands on her hips, completely ignoring them. Derek can’t imagine how she ever managed to get through the forest undetected wearing such a large skirt and bright clothes.

It’s a miracle they ever got this far without getting attacked.

The boy nods in agreement and glances down at the two of them. He has a large bundle slung over one shoulder, a bow over the other, and a knife strapped to his waist, and the way he drags his feet across the dirt suggests that he’s never needed to walk lightly before in his life. “He definitely came through this way though,” he says.

Neither of them smell of fear, which, to him, means they’re either recklessly brave or just foolishly ignorant. And given how _clean_ they both are, they couldn’t have been wandering around in the woods for too many days.

“Hey, you two.” Derek bites out, his voice sharp and hostile. “You know what that thing was?”

The boy gives a start at his outburst and glances over at the girl while she levels him with a disdainful glare. “That ‘thing’ is with us,” she tells him, her voice cold.

“With you? That Strain?” he asks in disbelief.

“His name’s Jackson. I’m Danny and this is Lydia. We’re trying to get him back before he causes any more damage. Did you see which way he went?” the boy cuts in.

“I’d point, but I can’t seem to move my arms,” he mutters sarcastically, wiggling the tips of his fingers as proof.

Danny gives a sheepish nod. “Yeah, he’ll do that to people. Don’t worry, it’ll wear off soon enough.”

“That’s so reassuring,” he deadpans. Stiles lets out a silent huff against his chest either out of amusement or to reprimand him for his attitude. Derek stifles the urge to roll his eyes and continues, “And I’m pretty sure your ‘Jackson’ went rogue. It’s probably better that he ran off.”

“Jackson didn’t go rogue. He’s just a little panicked,” Lydia snaps, her voice certain and eyes challenging. “I’ll be able to get him back to normal once we find him. Come on, Danny.”

Derek frowns to himself. If those two leave, he and Stiles will be left on their own and completely helpless again until Isaac and the other two find them. He can feel his Strain growling in disapproval at the idea. His top priority is to protect his pack.

“Wait,” he says.

The two stop and turn back to look at him.

As much as he would like to let them go off and get themselves killed, he can hear something prowling in the distance and doesn’t want to risk it. “How are you two even going to _start_ looking for him? If you had to ask us for directions, then clearly neither of you are very good at tracking.”

Lydia narrows her eyes. “And exactly what are you proposing?—not that you’re in any position to be making bargains.”

He rolls his eyes this time. “Is that so? Well, if you want to go running through these woods and be killed by rogues or wild animals, then by all means, go for it. By the looks of it, you’d be lucky to last till nightfall around these parts.”

The girl considers his words for a moment, a frown marring her features. “So what do you suggest?” At the very least, she appears to recognize the truth in his words. “You basically want protection while you’re stuck on the ground, right?”

“Right.” He can’t deny the blunt words. “And in return, we’ll help you track down your Jackson.”

“I’ll need to get close to him,” Lydia says.

“That can be arranged,” he replies.

She exchanges glances with Danny before turning back to him. “Okay. And how do we know you two won’t just run off once the venom’s worn off?”

“You don’t,” Derek answers. “For all you know, I’ll kill you both once I can move again—”

Stiles frowns and pinches him.

“—but you could also do the same to us, right now. So we don’t really have any choice but to trust each other, do we?” he finishes.

Lydia frowns. “No, I suppose we don’t.” She gestures for Danny to put the bundle down. “Looks like we’ll be here a while. Seeing as you’ve regained control over your fingers, I’d say it’ll take an hour and half for you to get back on your feet. You’ll probably feel weak for another two hours after that though.”

Furrowing his brow, Derek tries to recall how long an ‘hour’ was. It’s not a unit of measure that’s commonly used anymore, not when they no longer have tools to measure ‘hours’ with. He’s seen travelling merchants with remnants of timepieces and learnt what the numbers signified from his grandmother’s journal, but he himself has never had any occasion to use ‘hours’. It makes him wonder exactly where these two are from that she has come to use the word so naturally—like it means something to her.

“Should I set up wards?” she asks.

“No—wait, you know magic?” He glances down at Stiles who gives the slightest of shrugs in response. “I wasn’t aware Strains were capable of magic.”

Finding a nearby log to sit down on, Lydia dusts her skirt and begins examining her nails with practiced boredom. “Most aren’t. From what I’ve read, only certain types of Pure Strains and Humans are capable of using magic, and the Humans who can are completely incompatible with strains of any kind. Exposure always led to death. Chances are, I’m the first New Strain with this ability. And with the exception of mountain ash, I can do everything and more,” she explains. "Even after the end of the world, we continue to evolve."

Derek’s begrudgingly impressed by her knowledge as he sifts through the information he’s just been presented. Several things immediately stand out in his mind. The first and foremost is about Stiles. Alarms are going off in his head at the thought of how a bite from a Strain will be lethal to him—it’s probably why his mother died—and judging by the way Stiles has tensed up, the same thought’s probably running through his mind. The next thing he noticed was that Lydia is familiar with letters, which isn’t too surprising to him given how the girl carries herself. She’s an intellect, not a farmer or a fighter.

“That’s all written somewhere?” he asks. It occurs to him that it would be easier to hold a conversation if he wasn’t lying on the ground with Stiles on top of him and their things digging painfully into his back, but he can’t bring himself to ask for the assistance.

Danny nods, taking a seat next to Lydia. “We have a library where we’re from. Most of it survived Day Zero somehow, so we have books and documents about everything. I think Lydia’s read them all, so if anyone can answer your questions, it’s her.”

He can practically feel Stiles bursting with questions he wants to ask about the library and books, but he can't exactly see the boy well enough to even begin to guess what he wants to ask. So instead, he thinks back to his grandmothers’ journal to come up with his own questions. “A library. A book house? There are libraries outside of Dead Zones?”

Lydia arches a brow at that, seemingly impressed that he knew anything about libraries at all, but it’s Danny who answers, “We come from a Strain community that’s in a former Dead Zone. We, or, our forefathers managed to drive the rogues out and fortified it.”

The boy’s not lying. That would explain why the pair seemed so sheltered. They’re probably part of the elite class in a large population where food is abundant.

Their conversation peters out after that, with no one being in the mood to socialize. The two chat among themselves while Derek continues trying to will his limbs to move. He can finally bend his knees and elbows again when he hears Danny say, “We could’ve tracked Jackson down ourselves.”

“No, we couldn’t. Not anymore. I lost track of it. We came here because I thought Jackson had killed someone else,” she tells him.

“Well, they’re both alive over there, so what were we following?”

“It’s him.” She glances over at them. “There’s death all over him.”

Derek frowns and is about to ask her what she meant when he hears footsteps in the distance. He stiffens for a moment and waits. Eventually he can hear Isaac’s voice. “They’re definitely around here, I can smell them.”

“Good for you,” comes Erica’s reply. “How about you find them a little faster before my arms give out?”

He lets out a whistle to alert them of their presence and location. When Danny and Lydia look over at him in alarm, he flicks his wrist lazily. “It’s okay. They’re with us.”

After a long moment of silence, the three stumble through the trees and into sight. He looks over to see Erica half supporting and half dragging the other two by the arms. She takes one look at them and frowns. “It got you too, hmm?” Then she looks at the Lydia and Danny and asks, “Who are these two?”

“They’re chasing the Strain that attacked you,” he explains. “We have an ongoing agreement.”

Reassured that they’re not hostile, Erica nods and drags the two boys over to a nearby tree and props them against it. “It’s not poison, is it? We got attacked not too far from here. I don’t think it likes water. It left us alone after I dragged these two across a stream.”

Derek shakes his head. “No, it’ll wear off. We’ll probably have to set up camp here though.”

Erica shrugs and hauls Stiles off of him and sits him against a tree. “That’s fine by me,” she says, grunting as she hoists him up to free him of their baggage before sitting him next to Stiles. The relief to his back is sharp and clear, even as the blood rushes down from his head. She throws their belongings next to him and stretches. “I’ll need the rest anyway, after all the heavy lifting I’ve had to do today.”

He can’t help but huff fondly at her.

“What kind of Strain _was_ that?” Isaac asks.

“A lizard Strain,” Lydia cuts in. “Jackson’s a lizard Strain.”

She’s probably explaining it so that they’ll stop calling her Jackson ‘it’, Derek thinks.

And he thinks he understands.

It’s probably the same feeling as he had when he and Laura were refused entrance to towns and villages that were lined with mountain ash. He still remembers some of the ugly names they had been called, the harsh words and rocks that had been pelted at them, and the way the villagers had eyed them with disgust.

“Disgusting rats,” the villagers had called them.

“Abominations!”

“Go crawling back to your own filthy kind!”

“Monsters aren’t welcomed here!”

“Hope Purgers get you and skin you alive!”

“Good riddance!”

Derek remembers the rage he felt, not for himself, but for his sister, who walked away with her head held high, barring out the comments. How could anyone be so ignorant as to dismiss her and look down on her just because they couldn’t step through a line of tree powder?

“You’re worth more than all of them combined,” he had muttered to her.

And he remembers Laura smiling ruefully at him and pulling him close. “I know. Thanks, little bro.”

He snaps back to reality when Stiles wraps his fingers around his wrist. Arching a brow, he looks over to see the boy shooting him a knowing, worried look. He shakes his head and forces himself to relax and turns his attention back to the conversation at hand. Lydia’s reluctantly retelling their tale of how they winded up where they are now, with encouragements from Danny.

“If you two shared a significant bond, then your separation might’ve been enough to throw him off balance, Derek contributes, rejoining the conversation. “What kind of Strain is he? Pure? New?”

Lydia looks over at him and frowns. “Why does it matter? All Strains are susceptible to this.”

“It matters if we have to get within paralyzing range again. The more information we have, the better,” he replies.

Unable to disagree, she purses her lips and tells them, “He was turned. The venom comes out from his claws. His vision’s excellent and so is his sense of taste and smell—though I’m not sure how attuned to them he’ll be with his current state. Is that enough information for you?”

“It’s a start,” Derek mutters, sharing her lack of enthusiasm.

“Well, if he first went rogue-ish when you got attacked,” Isaac starts, “then maybe he’ll come to your rescue again if he thinks you’re in danger. I mean, he’s still pretty close by when we ran into him.”

Danny turns to Lydia. “It might work. You know how Jackson can get.”

“Maybe,” Lydia concedes.

They all turn to him and await his approval. Momentarily taken aback by the sudden attention, he straightens his back as much as he can. “It’s worth a try,” he tells them with a shrug, pleased to have regained _some_ movement in his shoulders. “We’ll do it tomorrow morning. When all our limbs are working again.”

The rest of the group voices their agreement. Erica stands up with her hands at her waist. “Since I’m the only one who can walk, I guess that means I’m in charge of firewood and traps tonight. I’m Erica, by the way,” she says, ever the diplomat. “That’s Boyd and Isaac over there. And assuming neither of them introduced themselves, that’s Derek and Stiles.”

Danny smiles and gets up. “I can help with that. I’m Danny. This is Lydia.”

Erica nods and walks over towards them and digs through the pack for their traps. Derek arches a brow at her and she rolls her eyes. “I’ll be fine. You boys just concentrate on standing. Looks like a couple of these broke.”

“You mind if I take a look at those?” Danny asks. “I might be able to fix them.”

“We don’t really have any tools for you to fix them with, but suit yourself.” She tosses the traps over. “C’mon, you can bring them along.”

After they leave, Derek looks over at Lydia. “If we get him close enough, you’ll be able to stop him, right? Because if you can’t, we’ll stop him—for good.”

She frowns. “I’ll stop him.”

\--

By the time Erica and Danny return, Derek and Stiles are back on their feet, albeit a little unsteadily. Erica looks pleasantly surprised. “Nice to see you back on your feet. Danny fixed our traps.”

Derek gives her a nod of acknowledgement. His legs feel like they’ve just been defrosted and his tailbone has gone numb from sitting in the same spot for so long. Stiff and tingly from the waist down, he wants nothing more than to sit back down and wait for the feeling to go away. And judging by the face Stiles is making and the way he’s got his hand on his back, he’s going through the same discomfort. Closing his eyes for a moment, Derek inhales and tries to concentrate on how relieved he is to simply be in control of them again.

It doesn’t work very well, much to his dismay.

“You two look like you’re in pain,” Boyd observes.

“Is it really that bad?” Isaac asks with a worried frown.

“You’ll see when it’s your turn,” Derek replies, gritting his teeth as he takes a step and pins and needles shoot up his legs. “You might want to get Erica to lay you down. We’ll go set up wards.”

Lydia arches a brow and turns to the boy as though seeing him for the first time. “You know magic?”

Stiles shrugs.

“I’ll come with you. I want to see,” she says, standing up.

Derek exchanges looks with the boy for a moment and turns to Lydia. “Fine, but you’ll have to show us what you know.”

Lydia considers this and nods. “Fair enough.”

He retrieves a bottle from their pack and passes it to Stiles. His arms feel well, but not enough to trust them to be able to toss it accurately. “Mountain ash,” he explains. “No one’s getting in or out tonight.”

“A Human,” Lydia mutters, thoughtful. “I’ve never met a Human capable of using magic before.”

Stiles shrugs again.

She shoots Derek a questioning gaze, clearly curious about Stiles’ silence. He shakes his head in dismissal and tells her, instead, “You’re going to want to put on something less flashy.”

Lydia frowns at the suggestion but pulls a cloak out of her pack and wraps it around herself.

\--

The walk around the site ends up taking longer than expected, partly from their difficulty walking, and partly from Stiles and Lydia. After etching the ward into a tree, Stiles would step back and allow Lydia to inspect it. She would study the design closely and add her own symbols to it. Then she would carve into the next tree and allow Stiles to do the same, nodding in approval at the additions he made to her ward, sometimes adding to it afterwards.

Leaning against a nearby tree, Derek watches them, occasionally sniffing the air to make sure there aren’t any threats close to them. He remembers Stiles telling him how wards are often a reflection of their creator and wonders what the pair are learning about each other through their exchange of knowledge. The two of them seem to be enjoying themselves—even Lydia seems more at ease. She must be skilled, because every now and then, she’ll etch something into the tree that has Stiles flailing his arms in excitement.

Their thirst for knowledge reminds him of Uncle Peter. Out of everyone he’s come across so far, he’s pretty sure Uncle Peter would’ve liked Stiles and Lydia best. Charming Uncle Peter and his love for books and history, he was the one who used to read stories to Cora, and indulge Laura by making silly bets with her, and then hide with Derek whenever either one of them got in trouble with Talia. More of a strategist and a scholar than a fighter, if anyone in the family had any chance of wielding magic, it would’ve been him.

By the time they finish the last ward, Stiles is smiling at Lydia, with his eyes alight with admiration. Pushing himself off the tree, Derek nods towards their campsite. “We should head back before Erica comes looking for us.”

When they return to the others, Erica’s started a fire and Isaac and Boyd appear to have managed to sit themselves up without any help.

“That took a while,” Isaac says.

“There was a lot to be learned,” Lydia replies. “Magic can’t be rushed unless you want to risk it turning against you.”

Sitting down by the fire Derek asks, “You know about Day Zero, right?” because he plans on getting as many of his questions answered while these two are still around.

Lydia nods. “I’ve read what I could on it.”

“What was it?”

Curious, everyone turns their attention to her.

“Day Zero was the day the war ended,” she answers, “at the cost of the world. The Third World War. We didn’t have very many written records on why the war started, but it seems to have been a war for resources. After clearing all the trees and mountains and polluting everything, there was a demand for all the things they no longer had. And unlike the first two world wars, which were fought with people, this one was fought with technology.

“First, entire cities—what we call Dead Zones now—were destroyed, one at a time by ‘bombs’. Then, when the war still didn’t stop, the people in power at the time released a…disease, I suppose you could call it, on the people in the cities. It was an unstable strain, a failed batch from when the first Pure Strains were created, and it was supposed to turn the Humans into rogues. There was an 80% success rate. That was Day Zero. There was no cure for it, and the ones who escaped are the forefathers of the Humans and Strains today.”

Derek furrows his brows. “Shouldn’t the rogues in the Dead Zones have died out by now?”

“We don’t have anything written on that,” Lydia admits. “But they must have. It’d be impossible for them to live that long. Maybe they learnt how to reproduce. Either way, there must be one reason or another why the rogues are drawn to Dead Zones like food sources or something.”

He nods, satisfied with the answer. It’s already more than he had hoped for.

“Even if it wasn’t overran with rogues and dangerous animals, it’s not really a great place to be,” Danny says. While Lydia may be tight-lipped about their personal life, Danny doesn’t seem to have that problem. “Where we’re from, we didn’t have trees covering us and the land we had for farming was barely enough to keep everyone fed. The most valuable thing we had was our library.”

“Then why’d you stay there?” Isaac asks.

The two of them exchange looks and shrug. “It was all we ever knew,” Danny answers. “The leader kept us safe from everything outside. It was home and we never had any reason to leave—until now.”

Frowning, Derek studies their expressions over the fire, the lost and uncertain gleam in their eyes is enough to tell him that they no longer have a home to return to. Not liking the direction his thoughts are leading him towards, he turns away from them and focuses his attention on the fire as the conversation carries on around him.

“So what kind of Strain are you?” Erica asks.

Lydia shrugs again. “I don’t know. My Strain’s not an animal.”

Erica arches a brow. “A non-animal Strain. Is that even possible? What does it do then?”

“My Strain screams,” she tells them.

Later, after the sun’s gone down and Boyd takes first watch, curled up by his side, Stiles writes into his arm,

_“Maybe her Strain’s screaming at the state of the world.”_

\--

“I want you to stay outside the circle with Danny,” Derek says the next day after breakfast, with nothing but finality in his voice. He retrieves the gun strapped to the side of the pack and hands it over.

Stiles frowns and takes the gun, brows furrowing in protest.

“No. You’re staying outside the circle with the gun, and that’s final,” he repeats. He doesn’t even want to think about what could happen if Stiles were to get bitten during the fight.

A little away, he hears Erica saying, “Don’t pay any attention to those two. They’re always like this.”

The both of them turn to her with matching scowls.

Erica snorts in amusement and tosses a bottle of mountain ash over. “Here, Stiles. You’re gonna need this.” Then turning to the others, she asks, “You two ready to get paralyzed again?”

“Great,” Isaac mutters.

“Stay outside the circle or I’ll throw you out myself,” Derek tells him one last time before getting up to join the rest of the group.

Stiles huffs and throws his free arm into the air in defeat.

They walk as a group through the woods with Lydia in the centre. In the back with Stiles and Danny, Derek lifts his head and sniffs, picking up Jackson’s scent nearby. He shoots Stiles a look and unsheathes his claws. Stiles nods and slows his pace by a fraction. Without warning, he lunges for Lydia only to have a figure jump into his path.

Jumping back to a safe distance, he watches as Lydia turns around to come face to face with the Strain. Her eyes widen and Derek can hear her heart speeding up in fear and anticipation. “Jackson?”

For a moment, Derek thought he saw something flash behind the Strain’s eyes—something akin to regret, concern, and fierce protectiveness.

But it quickly disappears as Jackson narrows his eyes and jumps back before she can reach out to him. He tries to escape but finds himself trapped in the circle of mountain ash that Stiles created and turns back to the group and lashes out at them with his tail. Isaac and Erica immediately jump back only to find their movements limited by the mountain ash as well. Shifting, they crouch, muscles tense, ready to take the Strain down.

“Wait, don’t hurt him,” Lydia calls out.

Derek nods for his pack to circle the snarling Strain. “This is your last chance.”

From outside the circle, Stiles cocks his gun and takes aim.

“I’ve got this.” Lydia’s eyes harden at that. She pulls out a necklace with a silver key, and from where he’s standing, Derek can see runes engraved all over it. Taking a step towards Jackson and holding her breath when he turns, she holds the key up for him to see.

“Jackson, it’s me,” she says softly. “We need you to snap out of it. Jackson, I need you here. We can’t go home anymore and I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Jackson cocks his head to the side slightly and gingerly takes the key in his hand, eyes softening at the sight of it. The gesture’s so sentimental and _Human-like_ that Derek can’t help but stand down.

With the key in Jackson’s hand, Lydia starts reciting something in a language Derek’s never heard and the key begins to glow. They all watch as Jackson staggers back a step, shifting back as his eyes roll back. Lydia catches him before he collapses and lowers him to the ground, cradling his prone form against her.

“Will he be okay?” Danny asks from outside the circle.

“I had to knock him out. I couldn’t risk it,” she tells him through restrained tears. “He’ll be okay. He has to be.”

Shifting back, Derek watches the three while Stiles breaks the circle and makes his way over. He knows that his deal with Lydia’s over now and they should get going if they want to get to Beacon Hills before winter. But instead, he sighs, “We’ll stay until he wakes up.”

\--

“You heard them though—they don’t have anywhere to go,” Isaac points out.

“That’s not our problem,” Derek replies, filling the pot with water to bring back. After a brief argument amongst themselves, the two of them got stuck with water duty while the other three waited with Lydia’s group. “They’ll only slow us down. Out of those three, only one of them knows how to fight—and even then, it might’ve been nothing but instincts.”

“I didn’t know how to fight either, but you taught me,” Isaac says. “Why can’t you just teach them?”

“I had all of winter to train you. We don’t have that kind of time to dedicate to training,” he retorts. “What if Jackson accidentally paralyzes someone during a fight?”

With no answer for that question, Isaac suggests, “What about Lydia’s magic? That seemed pretty useful. And that trick with the necklace worked really well.”

He doesn’t know enough about magic to have an opinion. “I don’t know, but we have Stiles.”

“Danny fixed out traps,” Isaac tells him. “I think he was talking about how to make better ones yesterday while you guys were setting up wards.”

“That’s nice, but not essential,” Derek mutters.

Isaac shrugs. “Well, if you’re going to put it like that then none of us were essential to you, were we?”

Derek pauses. It’s not a point he can deny, because in the grand scheme of things, Isaac’s right. When it comes to his own survival, he doesn’t actually need any of them, not even Stiles. But he’s gotten to the point where he can’t imagine continuing his journey without them, and even he has to admit that Lydia’s group _does_ have their unique set of skills and talents.

The Strain in him whines excitedly at the thought of a bigger pack.

“I’ll have to talk it over with the others first,” he sighs. “And we don’t even know if they want to come with us yet.”

Grinning, Isaac takes the water from him and trots ahead. “I’m sure they’ll be agreeable to the idea.”

When they get back, Jackson, Lydia, and Danny are in a tearful embrace while the others are standing to the side and talking among themselves. Seeing the three, Derek can’t help but feel relieved that whatever Lydia did worked and they won’t have to deal with Jackson the hard way.

Erica shoots Isaac a meaningful look and Derek frowns. “I take it I don’t have to ask Erica on her opinion on the matter.”

Isaac shrugs sheepishly. “Her or Boyd, actually. It might not be the best thing to do, but it might be the right thing. They can’t go home, Derek. They’ll be killed for leaving with Jackson.”

His frown deepens. While he can admit that it would be a shame for the world to lose someone as knowledgeable about the world as Lydia, he can’t let something like that cloud his judgment. The safety of the pack comes first, he reminds himself. “You do realize that we’ll never make it to Beacon Hills alive if we take every stray we come across with us, right?” he asks.

With an earnest nod, Isaac replies, “I know. It’s just…we’d all be in the same position right now if it weren’t for you. None of us really had anywhere to go before you and Stiles came along.”

Derek wants to tell the boy that they were different, but he can’t. He glances over at Stiles who nods back as if to reassure him of his decision. “They can do whatever they want, but don’t expect an offer from me,” he says, walking off to sort out his thoughts.

He doesn’t have to turn to see that it’s Stiles joining him on his walk.

Away from the rest of the group, Stiles gives him a light nudge and arches a brow in question. “Are you really that against the idea?”

(It’s a relief to be able to talk to the boy amidst everything that’s happening, though he’ll never admit it.)

“We don’t have the luxury to be kind to strangers,” he says, coming to a stop.

Stiles shoots him a long, unreadable look, and it’s a little disconcerting to see that there are still times when he doesn’t understand the boy.

When the silence draws on for too long, Derek frowns. “What?”

The boy shakes his head, the look replaced with a smile. “Nothing. We managed just fine with five before,” he says, getting back to the topic at hand.

“And it’s only going to get harder travelling with eight,” Derek tells him. “I thought this wasn’t going to turn into a thing.”

He gets a shrug from the boy in response.

“We’ll probably end up regretting this,” he murmurs.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Stiles says, _“_ Maybe we will. But maybe we won’t. I mean, we _could_ just move on. We don’t owe them anything.”

The conversation’s a familiar one.

“But,” Stiles continues, “that’s not going to happen, is it? We’re not going to leave them here—I don’t think you’re actually capable of doing something like that.”

Derek frowns, opting to reply with silence.

“Look, I get that it’s going to be hard with more people, but maybe it won’t be that bad. We managed to get this far already, so what’s three more people, right? Besides, Lydia’s magic’s amazing! Did you see the way she channelled her magic through the key? That was _awesome_!”

His lips curl upwards just ever so slightly. “Yes, Stiles, I was there.”

Stiles lets out a huff and rolls his eyes fondly at him.

There’s a moment of companionable silence between them.

Exhaling softly, Derek runs his thumb lightly over the scar on the boy’s throat. Stiles instinctively tenses up but doesn’t flinch from the touch. It’s an intimate gesture—a privilege reserved only for him, just like how Stiles is the only person allowed to read his grandmother’s journal.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Let’s see where this gets us.”

\--

When they return, they find the group waiting for them. Lydia turns to him with her fingers laced with Jackson’s, and she asks, “Can we really come with you?”

There’s skepticism and uncertainty in her voice and it bothers him to hear it when all the women in his life so far have been headstrong and brave to a fault. “You can do whatever you want,” he tells her, “but if you’re going to come with us, you’ll have to earn your keep—all three of you.”

The relief and gratitude in their eyes is enough for him to push his doubts aside—for the moment.

\--

After Isaac, Erica and Boyd take off to scout ahead, Derek finally gets to ask, “You have the ability to smell death?”

Stiles shoots him a questioning look.

Lydia and Jackson both look up in alarm, but the girl quickly regains her composure and nods. “I take it you heard me talking yesterday then. Yeah, it’s true. It’s more of a feeling than a smell—it’s like a pull. Normally, it leads me to corpses, but killers leave a trace too, and so do people who’ve been exposed to death over and over again.”

“So what were you talking about yesterday,” he asks.

“You threw me off my trail, that’s all. I thought I was following Jackson’s trail, but it turned out to be yours. Whatever you’ve been through, whatever deaths you’ve seen, it seems to have left a permanent mark on you,” she tells him. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing detrimental.”

He nods, satisfied with her answer. It doesn’t surprise him to hear that; in fact, it fills him with a sense of morbid satisfaction to know that he carries the death of his family in more ways than just his memories.

Stiles shoots him another look, and Derek quickly changes the subject before the boy can stare him down for answers and confessions. “Can any of you hold your own in a fight?”

Jackson frowns and places his hands at his hips. “Yeah, I can. What about it?”

Derek arches a brow at the abrasive attitude. “Then tomorrow, you’ll get to scout for villages with Boyd. We need more supplies and non-meats.” He knows Boyd won’t put up with any reckless behaviour from Jackson or lose his temper easily if the boy steps out of line. “Lydia, you’ll be working with Stiles. I want you two to at least be familiar with each other’s abilities and improve on whatever you can.”

Lydia nods. “Should the focus be on defensive or offensive magic?”

“Both. And I don’t care how you do it or what order you do it in,” he says.

“Even the incantations?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“But what use are incantations to someone who doesn’t speak?”

It’s a valid question and Derek glances over to Stiles, wondering how long it’ll take him to start speaking again. “Just do it anyway. He’ll pick it up.” Then he turns to Danny. “Tomorrow, Erica will get you started on close-range fighting. You can also practice shooting at her if you want. It’ll be a good exercise for the both of you.”

“What about you?” Jackson asks. “What’ll you be doing?”

“I’ll be hunting with Isaac. We’ll need more food now that there are more mouths to feed,” he replies easily. While he’s glad that they didn’t have to kill Jackson, his Strain is growing restless again, partly due to the pent up energy from the unfruitful fight earlier, and partly from the excitement at the idea of the new additions to his pack. He needs to go on a run and Isaac’s the only one who can even come close to keeping up with him.

That night, while sitting by the fire, Derek glances around in astonishment at just how many of them there are. Danny is tinkering around with their tools and traps while the four watch him with a mixture of curiosity and amazement on their faces, and off to the side, Lydia’s making Jackson read a book called _The Notebook_ with her.

Eight.

The number’s never sounded so daunting before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! 
> 
> FYI, Danny has a raccoon strain.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly, there’s a broken cry from the cave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morrell and Deaton are going to be called by their last names because calling them 'Marin' and 'Alan' sounds weird to me--kind of like calling Boyd 'Vernon'.

He wasn’t wrong.

Things do get harder with eight, but it’s not unbearable. Unavoidably, there have been clashes and conflicts between group members, but nothing enough to create any permanent rifts between them, much to Derek’s relief. But there are also times when he wonders how he wound up taking care of a bunch of children (because at the end of the day, that’s what they really are).

Then there are days when the doubt and hopelessness of the situation sets in—when the realization of how much he’s gained hits him.

(How much he’s gained and how much he has to lose.)

On those days, he looks around the camp and listens to the conversations with a heavy heart. It’s all so full of warmth and _life_. And for some reason, it only serves to fill him up with both contentment and dread because there’s a voice in the back of his head that constantly reminds him that it can’t last. Ever since Boyd and Erica joined them, he’s been holding his breath and waiting for disaster to strike. One day, they’ll pick a battle they can’t win. It’s only a matter of time.

He recalls Stiles’ words about fear and wonders if this is the constant terror Humans live in.

Those are the days when he goes off on his own to sort out his thoughts. And it’s on those days that Stiles follows him and sits next to him. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don’t, but the boy is always there.

“I won’t always be able to keep you safe,” he mutters one day.

The thought’s been plaguing his mind all day and it feels like a confession—the words leave a sour taste in his mouth after saying them out loud.

“But you’ll try. Remember that we chose this,” Stiles says.

Derek arches a brow.

Stiles leans against him, lacing their fingers together. It’s a gesture of reassurance and Derek takes comfort in it. “You’re not forcing us to be here against our will. Remember that we chose to come with you. We understood the risks and looked at the choices we had and we chose to follow you. I chose to be here, Derek.”

“Why?” he asks without elaborating, certain that the boy will understand his meaning.

“That day in the woods…” Stiles trails off with a shrug and says instead, “I don’t know. Maybe I just like being around Strains.”

“The Boy who Runs with Strains,” Derek recalls, allowing the change in conversation.

“Truer now than ever before,” Stiles says with a smile.

Leaning back to rest his head against the tree trunk and closing his eyes, he says, “Stiles.”

“Hmm?”

“Talk.”

\--

It’s late spring and they seem to have finally through the particularly rogue-infested part of the mountains. As they draw closer to the invisible line dividing ‘Oregon’ and ‘California’, the doubt in him starts ebbing away. There are days when he thinks: maybe they’ll make it after all—all of them.

“Jackson, give that back! Don’t make me use mountain ash on you again!”

“I’d like to see you try!”

So long as they don’t end up killing one another first.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Derek lets out a sigh and stands up to put a stop to the fight before Lydia starts making threats of her own. “Cut it out, you two. Jackson, you’re coming with me and Erica to scout ahead today.”

Jackson arches a brow. “I thought you were going to go with Isaac and Erica.”

“Yeah, well, I changed my mind,” he says. “We can’t have you two arguing the whole way there. So give Stiles back his knife.” Then he turns to Stiles. “And you, stop using up our mountain ash on the pack.”

Derek immediately shuts his mouth, not having meant to use the word ‘pack’ just now. He never meant to let any of them know just how much they've come to mean to him. That just made everything too real, too serious. And he’s realistic enough to acknowledge the fact that he won’t be able to keep them in the end.

But then again, didn’t the same thing happen with the dog? Leaving her unnamed and not acknowledging her importance to him until it was too late only made things worse. After a moment of wrestling with his thoughts, he opens his mouth to correct himself but then stops when he sees everyone’s eyes are on him.

They’re all smiling—even Jackson’s eyes have softened as he says, “Whatever. Let’s go then.”

Flustered and rattled by the turn of events, he nods and makes his way away from the group, but not before turning around and telling them to behave once more.

“Do you think we’ll all make it to Beacon Hills?” Erica asks once they’re out of hearing range.

Her tone is one that demands an answer that hasn’t been sugar-coated, and he can respect that. “I don’t know,” Derek replies. “If we’re lucky, maybe.”

“I hope we make it,” she says, her voice wistful and eyes focussed ahead, “all of us.”

“Me too,” he answers honestly.

\--

They haven’t gotten very far when he smells something in the distance. Holding up a hand, he gestures for the two to stop.

“What is it?” Erica asks, eyes bright and alert.

Derek lifts his head and sniffs. “There’s something up ahead.”

Jackson narrows his eyes and begins scanning the area. “I don’t see anyone.”

Cautiously, the three of them approach the smell. There’s still no one in sight, but as they get closer, there’s a sudden glint of light and Erica jumps away just in time for an arrow to hit her in the arm instead of the heart.

“Erica!”

The three of them immediately duck behind nearby trees. “I’m okay,” she calls out through gritting teeth, pulling the arrow out of her arm. “I’m okay. It’s not laced with anything.”

“Where’s it coming from?” Jackson asks.

Another arrow flies their way, embedding itself in the ground.

“I can smell it. You two stay here.” Shifting into his half-Strain form and takes off towards the smell, easily dodging another oncoming arrow. The way the arrow’s being fired has become far too predictable too quickly and it makes him uneasy.

No living creature capable of using a bow and arrow would be so static in their attack.

When he reaches the smell, he finds a jacket draped over an automated bow and picks it up to inspect it. The self-loading mechanism is an intricate-looking machine. Made from an assortment of materials, whoever built it must’ve spent hours if not days on it, assembling the pieces together with care.

Removing the arrows, he takes the bow and the jacket and returns to the other two. Danny will probably be able to make sense of this machine, he figures. When he gets back, he sees Erica slumped against the tree, holding her arm. Examining her crooked arm, he frowns. “It didn’t heal properly. We’re going to have to reset it. Hold onto something.”

“Just do it,” Erica hisses. “We have to get back to the others.”

Jackson immediately takes off his shirt and rolls it up, holding it up for Erica. “Bite down on this.”

Without warning, he breaks the bone and holds it in place for it to heal. Her screams are muffled by Jackson’s shirt and soon die down into pants. There are tears in her eyes and sweat rolling down her face.

“You’re okay,” Derek breathes. “It’s done. You’re going to be okay.”

“Who was attacking us?” Erica asks, spitting out Jackson’s shirt.

“It wasn’t a person firing at us,” he tells them. “It was this thing.”

“Was it a trap for animals or for us?” Jackson asks, his voice serious.

Derek holds up the jacket. “It was probably for us or some other Strain. You wouldn’t leave your scent all over a trap unless…”

Erica pushes herself up unsteadily and frowns. “Unless it was supposed to be a distraction. If they wanted us dead, they would’ve used wolfsbane. But instead, they fired at us, got us to waste time going after the trap, and for what?”

The realization hits him hard. “To keep us away from the group.” Handing the jacket and bow over, he starts pulling his clothes off. “I’m going to go ahead and go check on them. Make your way back to the others. Jackson, keep an eye on her.”

Shifting into his full-Strain form, he takes off as fast as he can back the way he came from. His instinct screaming at him to protect his pack. When he reaches the group, he finds Isaac, Boyd, and Danny talking nervously among themselves. Lydia and Stiles are nowhere to be seen. The three of them immediately turn to him with a start when he bursts through the brushes.

“Derek,” Boyd says. “We were just about to go find you.”

He lifts his muzzle, catching the same scent from the jacket earlier. His hackles rising, he looks to the three for answers.

“A girl showed up after you left,” Danny explains. “She said she needed help from Stiles. She knew he was a magic user.”

“We thought she was a Purger at first, but she had these eyes,” Isaac tells him. “Stiles and Lydia stepped in before we could try anything.”

“Lydia seemed pretty sure that she wasn’t going to hurt us unless we attacked,” Danny says. “I think she could sense something wrong.”

“They went with her,” Isaac finishes, staring at his feet.

“Go catch up with them,” Boyd tells him. “We’ll wait for Erica and Jackson to get back.”

Derek studies the three for a moment longer to make sure they’re all unharmed before following the scent of the intruder. He follows the scent through the mountainous terrain until he reaches the bottom of a steep, rocky hill and looks up. At the entrance of a cave, he can see Stiles and Lydia and another girl with dark brown hair and a bow in her hands. True to Lydia’s prediction, both of them appeared unharmed, much to his relief.

Ears prickling, he tries to catch their conversation as he climbs up.

“Dad…I found help. Just wait…”

“…mountain ash.”

“Break it.”

When he reaches the cave entrance, he finds a broken circle of mountain ash and feels a shiver run down his spine. Lining a place with mountain ash to trap the dying is a tactic he’s all too familiar with—one he wishes he never had to witness up close.

The flames.

The screams.

The smell of wildflowers and wolfsbane.

A soft whimper snaps him out of his trance, and it takes a moment for him to realize that it had come from him. Shaking the thoughts out of his head, he enters the cave. The place smells of pain, blood and death.

“Can’t you do anything for him with your magic? There has to be something,” the girl demands in choked back sobs, trying so hard to hold onto her composure. “He needs help.”

“It’s too late. I’m sorry,” Lydia replies. “No magic can fix this now.”

At Lydia’s words, something seems to break inside the girl and she stops trying to hold back her tears. “No, you’re lying. That can’t be true. I can pay you. I promise, we have weapons, pelts, food—whatever you want. Just help him. We’ll give you everything we have. Just…please…help my dad.”

“I’m sorry,” Lydia says again, voice soft with sympathy.

All the anger and worry from moments ago seeps out of him, leaving his paws feeling stiff and heavy. Stepping further inside the cave, he can see figures outlined by a small fire and approaches them as quietly as he can so as to avoid interrupting them.

“I can see you! Stay back!” the girl yells at him, her hawk-like eyes gleaming in the dark.

Lydia quickly reassures her of his identity while Stiles looks over at him with sad eyes.

“…llison?” a voice croaks.

All of them turn to the man lying on the ground. Battered and bloodied, there’s hardly an inch of him that isn’t painted with his own blood. One of his arms is twisted at an odd angle and his fingers clearly broken. Though most of the bleeding had stopped however long ago, Derek could smell infection and decay taking hold of the very Human body.

The man cracks open an eye and makes a raspy noise.

“I’m right here, dad,” the girl immediately reassures him, cupping his face. “I’m here now. I got through the mountain ash, I can get you out. I’ll get you home. You’ll be okay. Just hang on, okay?”

The man smiles, his split lip cracking open at the gesture. His breathing is shallow and laboured. Even without Lydia’s ability, Derek can see that he doesn’t have very much time left. Taking their cue, Stiles and Lydia get up and walk over towards him to give the girl and her father some privacy in their last moments together.

They end up sitting outside the entrance of the cave with him curled around the two.

“It was Purgers. They dragged him in there and lined it with mountain ash days ago. She couldn’t break through. That’s why she came to us for help,” Lydia explains, her voice sullen. “Maybe if we’d gotten here sooner…”

Stiles wraps an arm around her shoulder and shakes his head. “C’mon, Lydia. You know there’s nothing any of us could’ve done.”

Suddenly, there’s a broken cry from the cave.

After a moment, Lydia gets up. “She shouldn’t be alone.”

She disappears back into the cave, leaving him alone with Stiles. The boy wraps his arms around him and buries his face in his neck. Derek doesn’t move, keeping an eye on the forest for the rest of the pack. In his mind, he sees his own father. Tall, quiet, and dignified, he always looked up to his father. Where his mother had taught him confidence and self-respect, his father taught him reason and rationality.

That’s how the rest of the pack find them.

\--

They help the girl, Allison, bury her father nearby, warding the grave against scavengers and Strains. Derek glances over at Erica to see her eyes soft as she watches the girl, the earlier incident already forgotten. Lydia refuses to leave Allison’s side even after they arrive at the cabin Allison and her father had shared.

No one objects when she suggests they stay the night.

The place is completely hidden by the trees and surrounded by traps and alarms. There’s a small vegetable patch and a pile of firewood next to the house. It’s cozy and more than adequate to sustain two people. He and Stiles decide to go around the parameters to set up wards. Normally, he wouldn’t have a problem with sending Stiles alone, but with all the traps lying around, he would rather be around in case the boy accidentally trips one off.

That night, with nothing but the cabin to house all nine of them, they each end up claiming an area on the floor as their sleeping spot and make do with that. Despite the cramped conditions, Derek can’t help but appreciate being surrounded by walls and the feeling of security it brings, no matter how false. It hasn’t even been a year yet, but he’s already forgotten how comfortable it was to have a roof over his head.

Derek’s hardly surprised when they end up staying far longer than a single night, but they’re in a relatively secure location and as far as he’s concerned, the break is well deserved. With the extra time, they replenish their meat supply and manage to get some training done with Jackson and Danny.

All the while, Lydia continues watching over the girl, trying to coax her out of her shell. For the first two days, Allison was inconsolable, leaving the cabin only to visit her father’s grave. She barely ate and spoke only when spoken to. But eventually, with Lydia’s persistence, the girl seems to get back into the swing of things, even heading back out into the woods for archery practice.

Derek can’t help but feel a swirl of pride to see Lydia capable of showing so much compassion.

“I won’t drag Allison along or ask you to allow her to come with us,” Lydia tells him offhandedly one day after Allison had gone to visit her father’s grave on her own. “I won’t have to.”

He arches a brow and looks away from Erica and Jackson’s sparring session. “No?”

She flicks her hair back and shakes her head. “No, she’ll come to you and convince you on her own.”

“You sound confident,” he says.

“I am. She’s going to come and be helpful, but she’s not going to let this go. Would you?” Lydia asks.

His mind immediately flickers to the face of the woman who destroyed his life.

“Hello, boy. I’m afraid I’m a little lost,” she had said to him.

That woman could very well still be walking the earth for all he knows.

“We’re not here to help anyone along with their personal vendettas,” Derek says, pushing aside the memories.

Lydia studies him for a moment before she shrugs. “Allison will convince you,” she says again.

He frowns. “We’ll see.”

\--

On their last morning there, Derek wakes up with Stiles draped over him as usual and seeing the walls around him, he instinctively looks down his side, half expecting to see Laura curled up against him. There’s confusion at first, then the realization hits him hard and jolts him awake, which in turn, wakes Stiles up causing the boy to sit up and look around in confusion. Eventually, those large doe eyes settle on him and he shakes his head apologetically and gets up, careful to not wake the others.

Stiles shoots him a questioning look.

He tilts his head towards the door and gestures for the boy to go back to sleep.

On his way out, he sees Boyd opening one eye lazily at him and shakes his head. When he finally gets outside, the cool spring air hits him and he takes a deep breath and stretches. In the distance, he can hear something piercing wood and frowns. He hadn’t noticed anyone missing from the cabin, but with all of their scents mingling in such a small area, it wouldn’t be hard for someone to get in and out without notice.

When he reaches the source of the sound, he finds Allison standing there, shooting her arrows into the trunk of a distant tree. He clears his throat and she turns to him with her bow drawn and ready. He arches a brow and her hawk-like eyes quickly shift back to normal and she lowers the bow. “You’re up early,” she says quietly. “It’s Derek, right?”

He shrugs.

“If you plan on travelling past these mountains, you’ll be walking through Purger territory. The Argent clan has taken over most of the land around here. Years ago, a group of them went south to expand their territory. Their leader went and I think he’s still down there, but majority of the clan stayed behind. All the towns and villages around this area are too afraid to trade without the Argents’ permission, that’s why we started growing our own food in the first place. There might be a few Strain villages still standing, but sooner or later, they’ll be found and razed to the ground,” Allison tells him.

“How do you know all this,” Derek asks.

She looks him straight in the eye when she says, “My parents were Purgers.”

Arching an eyebrow, he waits for her to continue.

“They were Purgers in the Argents’ clan. My mother was attacked by a Strain when she was pregnant with me. It turned out she was immune, but I wasn’t. When she found out, she tried to…dispose of me. Having a New Human for a child was unacceptable to Purgers, if not her, then another would’ve killed me once they found out,” she says, blinking the tears out of her eyes. “My father stopped her. Then he took me and ran. He raised me here by himself. He was all I had.

“We’ve been hunted by the Argents all my life. We’ve managed to live here, undetected for years, just outside of their land. We were always careful, but then they got my dad when he was out hunting.” She angrily wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “You saw what they did to him.”

The memories from the cave immediately surface and he remains silent for lack of better things to say.

Allison straightens her back. There’s nothing but determination in her eyes and he knows exactly what’s going to come next. “If you’re still going to go south, then let me come with you. Their leader is there somewhere.”

“You’re aiming for the impossible,” Derek says instead of answering.

“Maybe. But at least I’ll go down trying,” she replies coolly. “I’m not looking for pity or a new family. We just happen to be going the same way, and you’ll need all the help you can get once you’re in Argent territory. I know this area and where all the towns are. I’ve got my bow and I know how to spot Purgers’ traps from afar. I can help you.”

Derek frowns. “You’ll only draw attention to us if you go off and start attacking the first Purger you see.”

“Then we’ll split up the second there’s trouble,” Allison immediately says. “If anything, I’ll make a good diversion for you to escape. I can take care of myself. I won’t put your group in danger.”

“If you’re so confident about this, then why don’t you go by yourself? You’ll probably get further faster on your own,” he points out.

“Lydia,” she admits, her eyes lowering and shoulders sagging. “She was the one who came to help me willingly that day and she’s the one who’s been taking care of me. And in these last few days, everyone’s been so kind to me. You helped me bury my dad even though you never met him and you stayed even though there was no reason to. This is the only way I can repay you. Let me help you, please.”

He wants to tell her that she doesn’t owe them anything, that they had received food and shelter in exchange. But the look in her eyes tells him that she’ll be marching to her death whether or not she joins them. Either way, she might as well have company for as long as she can, he figures.

“We leave after breakfast,” he tells her.

And for the first time since they met, Allison’s lips curl into a soft smile.

\--

They leave a little after breakfast, giving Allison time to visit her father’s grave one last time. No one so much as arches an eyebrow at the announcement while Derek tries to concentrate on getting everyone through Purger territory safely—and to _not_ think about the size of the group.

At the very least, their path through the mountains becomes significantly easier with a guide there to lead the way, avoiding all the populated areas and steep climbs. They only run into Purgers twice, managing to catch them off guards one time while staying hidden the other.

He refuses to slow their pace down until they’re out of Purger territory. And after crossing a few roads, he’s fairly sure they’re in California, or he hopes they are. It’s only then that they return to their usual routine of hunting and training.

Proving herself to be more than a mere guide, Allison offers to help Danny and Stiles with their aim by using the bow and arrow, and ends up putting them through training sessions almost as intense Derek’s own. She even manages to get Stiles to break his silence after a couple of days to complain about how numb his arms have become. His outburst surprises Allison enough that she calls it a day and goes to find Lydia.

Isaac and Erica immediately take the opportunity to go tease the two.

“Looks like she’s really making you two work,” Erica tells them, handing over a flask of water.

“Now you know what I went through,” Isaac says with a smug grin on his face.

Stiles massages his shoulders and scowls. “Not helpful at all.”

“Maybe you should give it a try, Isaac,” Danny says, taking a long swig of water.

Isaac shrugs. “Hey, I’m just the Strain. It’s not my fault you need training to improve your aim.”

“Did you just use my own words against me? I remember when you used to be quiet and shy,” Stiles mutters.

“Freedom makes a person bold, I guess,” Isaac replies.

There’s an underlying tone of gratefulness that makes Stiles pause and look over at Derek for help.

Having overheard the conversation and feeling the boy’s eyes on him, Derek returns the look for a moment and shrugs before promptly returning to his conversation with Boyd. Stiles can handle this on his own. Responding to gratitude is not his forte.

“Well, how about you boldly try out Allison’s training then?” Stiles eventually says.

Isaac lets out a laugh. “I said bold, Stiles, not masochistic.”

\--

“There’s smoke up ahead,” Allison reports from the top of the tree one day. They haven’t been able to send anyone to scout ahead since they left Allison’s cabin in fear of running into Purgers. She does a flip off the tree and lands perfectly on her feet. “It’s a town—or was. Looks like it’s been completely devastated. Someone set fire to it.”

“It was probably Purgers,” Lydia says. “No one else would set a town on fire like that. Humans prefer to loot, and Strains don’t care about doing structural damage.”

“Do you think there’re any survivors?” Stiles asks.

Derek frowns. “Is the fire still going?”

Allison shakes her head. “It looks like it happened at least a day ago. There’s barely any smoke left. It’s probably safe to go take a closer look. If it was the Argents, they would’ve left by now. They never stay to watch the whole thing.”

So they get a little closer to the ruined town, and after ensuring that the perpetrators are no longer around, they approach the town walls. The smell of smoke and ashes is overpowering and Derek has to cover his nose just to walk through the entrance. Most of the houses and huts have been razed to the ground and the ones left standing have been painted black by the flames. There are still traces of mountain ash circling some of the houses—an all too familiar scene for them.

Corpses litter the ground, some only partially burnt, revealing the wounds they received before breathing their last breath. Slashed throats, bodies sliced in half, arrows sticking out of their bodies in all directions. The flies, the size of thumbnails, have already started swarming around the corpses. 

Lydia clutches at Jackson’s shirt as they walk by a child-sized body. “There’s so much _death_ here. I can’t feel anything else,” she whispers. “Were they all Strains?”

Allison shakes her head. “Maybe, but probably not. Purgers don’t care about that as much as you think they do. Everyone associated to Strains needs to be purged as far as they’re concerned.”

Stiles looks around and spots a particular building and stops dead in his tracks.

Derek frowns. “Stiles?”

“I’ve been here before, Derek,” Stiles says, slinging his gun back over his shoulder.

This makes him snap his gaze up in attention. “What?”

“This was a mostly Strain town and that’s Morrell’s cabin over there,” Stiles tells him, taking a shaky breath. “She was a magic-user. I can still see some of her wards on the wood. She was one of the people who taught me magic and took care of me after…” He reaches up and touches the scar on his throat and swallows hard. “She had a brother in Beacon Hills—Deaton, and she said she’d get me back home, but then she never came back. And then I had to leave after that.”

He nods at the others to keep an eye out for danger while he turns back to the boy and asks, “Stiles, how did you end up here?”

Stiles’s heart rate speeds up. He fidgets with his fingers nervously, twiddling his thumbs and licking his lips. “It was…”

Seeing the boy hesitate so much, he cuts in, “Stiles, you don’t have to.”

“No, it’s fine, Derek. It’s about time, right?" Stiles says, offering a weak smile. “I’m pretty sure they were Purgers. They just kinda grabbed me when I was outside and then they took me somewhere. Wouldn’t tell me where. Wouldn’t tell me why. Every time I opened my mouth, they’d hit me. I don’t really know how long I was there for, and then one day,” he shuffles back and forth and stares at his feet, trying to keep his calm, “they just got rid of me. They said I talked too much and,” he rubs his neck again, his breathing coming out shallower than before, “—into a river or something. I thought I was going to die but then I woke up and Morrell was there and the next thing I knew, I was here. Kali always looked mad at me and Deucalion was blind and now they’re all dead. I was so sure I was going to die, I thought—” 

“Stiles!” Derek grabs Stiles by the shoulders and forces him to look into his eyes before the boy can break out into a full-blown panic attack. “Breathe, Stiles. Nothing bad’s going to happen to you. You’re allowed to talk. No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

Blinking the tears out of his eyes, Stiles nods and takes in long, unsteady breaths. “I’m okay, Derek. I’m okay. Let’s just go.”

He wants to pull Stiles close into a hug, like what Laura used to do for him, but abstains. Instead, he nods and places a hand on the boy's back to steady him. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go. There’s nothing here anyway.”

Everyone voices their agreement. Erica reaches out and wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and walks next to him while Derek flanks his other side. They all turn around and make their way back to the entrance only to have Allison stop them. “There’s someone coming into the town. It’s a Strain.”

Through the smell of ashes and smoke, none of them had been able to pick up the scent of the stranger. Allison immediately draws her bow while the Strains unsheathe their claws.

Coming into clear view of the rest of the group, the Strain snarls and approaches them cautiously, body crouching slightly, poised and ready to attack. But then just as abruptly as he appeared earlier, he shifts back and blinks. His brows furrow in disbelief and he takes a hesitant step forward.

“…Stiles?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd get a lot more done during my time off, but apparently not. Definitely won't be able to post anything new for the next two-ish weeks since I won't have my laptop with me. But once I'm reunited with it, I'm hoping to get the next chapter up soon after that.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dude, is that really you?”
> 
> And suddenly, Derek’s pretty sure he knows who the boy standing before them is.

“Stiles,” the stranger says again.

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times in attempt to make his voice work.

“Dude, is that really you?”

And suddenly, Derek’s pretty sure he knows who the boy standing before them is. It’s the use of the word ‘dude’ that gave it away. He glances over at Stiles, curious to see if the boy will be able to speak in front of someone he’s familiar with—or, at least, used to be. He wouldn’t blame the boy for remaining silent, especially after having _just_ relived such terrible memories.

“Scott?” Stiles finally manages to ask, his voice rough and raspy from his near panic attack mere moments ago.

The stranger’s face lights up and he steps forward and wraps his arms around Stiles in a tight embrace. “Oh my god, it _is_ you! Dude, it’s been actual years since I saw you! Where’ve you been? How’ve you been? Are you okay? What happened to your neck? I can’t believe it’s really you!”

“I…I’ve been around. Long story,” Stiles replies. It takes a moment for him to relax into the hug and to return the hug. When they part, glancing around at their surroundings, he seems to collect himself again and suggests, “Maybe we should talk somewhere that doesn’t smell like _death_.” Then turning back to the group, he makes a placating gesture at them. “Claws and fangs away, guys—magic and bows too. It’s okay. This is Scott. I know him. He’s a friend. A good friend.”

Scott nods. “Yeah, right, there’s a safe place—a village not too far from here. I just came by to make sure there weren’t any other survivors wandering around here.”

“Well, we didn’t come across anyone else,” Stiles says nodding towards the rest of them, “or one of them would’ve picked up on it.”

Scanning their faces and lingering on Allison’s for just a second longer, Scott nods. “C’mon then, let’s get going.” He grins and wraps an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “You have no idea how good it is to see you, bro. Like, seriously.”

Stiles’ lips curl into a soft smile and he follows his friend towards the exit. “Yeah, dude, you too. I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone.”

Derek furrows his brows slightly and wonders if they’re speaking in a regional dialect or if it’s just people from Beacon Hills.

As though reading his mind, Stiles glances back knowingly and grins. It’s shaky and there’s still a haunted look in his eyes, but at least the he’s smiling again.

\--

The village they arrive at is small and well hidden but also bare and unorganized. It’s more like a campsite with makeshift tents standing all around than an actual village. Much to everyone’s surprise, there are Strains, Humans, and New Humans wandering around, interacting with each other without conflict.

“This is just temporary shelter for survivors,” Scott explains. “You guys can walk around and stuff. There’s food over there and a medical tent over there. Just make yourselves comfortable. We can meet up and talk after you’ve rested up a bit.”

The group turn their eyes to him and wait for his nod of approval before splitting up and wandering off, leaving Stiles and Scott to catch up.

Derek walks around and peers into the tents. There doesn’t appear to be any plan behind the setup of the place, but the people seem to get along well enough. Walking around, he sees the rest of the group dispersed and talking to the inhabitants of the camp. Not in any mood to converse with strangers, he decides to scan the area surrounding the camp instead.

Much to his surprise, there are wards carved into trees growing nearby. Upon closer inspection, he notices how similar they look to Stiles’ wards before he started working with Lydia. He glances back towards the village, wondering which of the humans created the wards.

Eventually, he gets bored of walking around the small settlement. And with so many unanswered questions filling his thoughts, he decides to head back and look for the two boys. He spots them almost immediately, sitting on the ground, towards the edge of the camp, well away from the others. Stiles is failing his arms animatedly while recalling one tale or another while Scott listens on with widened eyes and occasional exclamations.

Derek huffs fondly at the sight. It never ceases to amaze him to see the boy bounce back so quickly. He couldn’t imagine being able to talk very much, let alone smile, if he ever worked up the courage to tell his tale.

Maybe their resilience makes up for their lack in enhanced senses, he thinks.

When he reaches them, Stiles looks over and grins, all his previous inhibitions towards Scott gone. “Hey, Derek. I was just telling Scott about Jackson. You know, when he paralyzed everyone?”

He makes a noncommittal noise and sits with his back to the boy, leaning against him, waiting for him to finish telling his tales. He can feel Scott’s gaze on him, equal parts curious and confused, but Stiles takes it as his cue to continue with his story and does just that.

When he finally finishes his stories, Stiles leans back and asks, “Hey, did you have something you wanted to ask Scott?”

Derek turns his head and nods. “Yeah. Who’s in charge around here?”

Scott shakes his head and shrugs. “No one, really. It’s been kinda hectic around here—you know, like a free-for-all. But I guess the closest thing to a person in charge would be me since Deaton only comes by every now and then, and since Aiden and Ethan over there can’t seem to agree on anything,” he says, nodding towards a pair of twins who are busy conversing with Jackson, Lydia and Danny. “They’re the only survivors of that town we were just at.”

He stifles the doubtful sound threatening to rise from his throat. What kind of situation is this area going through if all the people in this place have to look to _children_ for guidance? “You said this is a place for survivors—of Purges, I assume.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Scott agrees.

Stiles suddenly sits up, causing Derek to turn around in surprise at the sudden loss of his backrest. “Wait, Scott, this is a place only for survivors?”

Scott nods. “Yeah, more or less.”

“But, if _you’re_ here then…did something happen to Beacon Hills?” he asks.

This causes the other boy to pause and avert his eyes.

Frowning, Stiles leans forward, emitting nothing but urgency in his voice. “Scott? What happened to Beacon Hills? Is everyone okay?” After a moment of hesitation, he asks, “Scott, is my dad okay?”

“Stiles…” Scott starts softly. “I’m really sorry.”

He can feel the distress rolling off the boy in waves and hear the change in his heart rate.

When Stiles doesn’t answer, Scott frowns. “Stiles?”

There’s a hitched breath from the boy. Derek frowns and gets up, pulling Stiles along by the arm, leading the boy further towards the edge of the village until no one else is in sight, ignoring the sound of Scott calling after them.

Sitting Stiles down against a tree, he places his hands firmly on the boy’s shoulders and looks him in the eyes. “Stiles, you need to calm down. Breathe.”

Stiles watches him with wide, unseeing eyes, his lungs struggling to comply.

“C’mon,” he mutters, kneeling down and manhandling the boy until he’s curled up with his head between his knees. He rubs Stiles back and repeats, “Breathe.”

After several shaky breaths, the boy manages to regain control over his breathing. “My dad,” Stiles chokes out, keeping his head bowed. “Derek, my dad—I—”

Derek pulls his lips into a taut line. He opens his mouth to voice his condolences, but what comes out instead is silence. There's nothing he can say to make it better—to fix it.

Scott finds them a minute later, concern etched on his face. “Stiles?” He turns to Derek and asks, “Is he okay?”

He nods and the two of them wait for Stiles to regain control of his breathing.

“I’m okay,” the boy eventually mutters.

“Stiles, I’m really sorry,” Scott apologizes. “I totally forgot about your attacks.”

“I’m okay,” Stiles repeats. Then he looks up and asks in a quiet voice, “How did it happen, Scott?”

Glancing towards Derek once more, Scott hesitates. “Maybe—”

“Just tell me, please,” Stiles rasps.

“It was a Purger—Gerard,” Scott tells him.

Stiles pales at the name.

He instinctively leans forward to protect the boy from his fears, however intangible they may be.

“He’s taken over Beacon Hills, Stiles,” Scott continues, his voice tight. “It happened like, a year after you went missing. We tried to fight them off, but they were too strong. He killed all the Strains and ‘sympathizers’ in the town. I’m the only Strain from Beacon Hills left. My mom’s the only reason I got out alive. He’s keeping her in Beacon Hills as a doctor. Stiles, he—”

“That’s enough,” Derek snaps.

“Derek,” Stiles cuts in, pushing himself up and leaning back against the tree trunk. He takes a deep breath to keep himself composed and shakes his head. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay. I need to know, Derek. It’s my dad. I need to know what happened. Keep going, Scott.”

\--

So he sits there, next to the boy, watching him grow paler with every word. He listens to Scott’s story the best he can though he’s occasionally distracted by a skip in Stiles’ heartbeat at the mention at certain names or events. He listens to how Gerard tried to use Stiles’ death against his father and how it was thwarted by Deaton’s message from his sister. He listens to how they tried to defend their town only to have the Purgers overpower them and kill their leader in front of them. He listens to how Scott was forced to flee his home to seek refuge in nearby villages, leaving his mother behind.

Eventually, Scott finishes his tale and the three of them sit in silence until someone calls for Scott’s assistance, and endlessly apologetic, Scott goes to answer the call, leaving the two of them alone.

Stiles leans over, resting his head on his shoulder. It feels strangely heavy—as though Scott’s tale weighed down on the boy physically.

Derek laces their fingers together like the boy normally does.

Hugs were Laura’s thing, maybe this can be theirs.

“Gerard. That was the name of the Purger was the one who took me and ordered me dead,” Stiles says, voice barely above a whisper. “I never understood why. I should’ve known.”

He frowns and turns his head to look at the boy. “You were just a kid.”

“Maybe, but I should’ve done _something_. I mean, my dad knew I was alive,” Stiles continues. “He knew I was alive and he was waiting for me. And I don’t know if that makes things better or worse,” his voice cracked, “because I never went home. And even if I go back now, it’s too late. My dad died waiting for me to come home, Derek. What if he didn’t leave because of me? If I’d gotten back earlier, I—”

“You’d be dead right now,” Derek cuts in, tightening his grip on the boy’s hand. “Would that really have been so much better?”

Stiles doesn’t reply.

Although he wants to promise the boy vengeance for his father’s death, Derek keeps his mouth shut, not wanting to get the boy’s hopes up with empty words and false promises.

“I miss him, Derek,” Stiles tells him.

“Yeah,” he says, understanding what it’s like to lose family and to not be able to say goodbye. The emptiness gets better—it gets filled with other things, other _people_ , but it never completely goes away, he doesn’t tell Stiles.

“Derek,” Stiles mutters, turning his head and burying his face into his shoulder.

He can feel wetness seeping through the fabric of his shirt. “What is it?”

“Talk. Please, I don’t want to think about anything. Just…talk.”

So Derek talks. He talks more than he has in years, recalling stories from his childhood—of happier days. He talks about his family. He talks about the house and how the wooden floorboards would warm up under the sunlight. He talks about the meals they used to have with everyone gathered around the table. He talks about how Uncle Peter used to regale them with tales of historical leaders and classical epics. He talks about the arguments Cora and Laura used to have and how they would drag him into it just to annoy him.

He talks until Stiles falls asleep against him, his breathing evening out and heartbeat slowing down. And when he looks up, he sees the rest of the pack standing there, their eyes sad and understanding. Then, one by one, they take a seat next to him, around him, surrounding the two of them, none of them ever uttering a word.

And that’s how they end up spending the night—curled around each other, away from the rest of the camp. The gesture fills him with warmth.

This is pack, he thinks.

This is his pack.

\--

The next day, early in the morning, after Erica and Lydia whisk Stiles away for breakfast, Scott finds him and asks for a moment of his time. Derek arches a brow, wondering what the boy could possibly want from him. Crossing his arms, he asks, “What is it?”

Scott shakes his head, fidgeting nervously. “Stiles told me all about how you took care of him and brought him back here. He, umm…he likes you a lot. You should’ve heard some of the stories he told about you.”

He huffs in amusement. “I can imagine.”

“When he went missing all those years ago, I thought I’d lost him for good,” Scott tells him softly. “And if it weren’t for you, I probably would have. He’s like a brother to me. We grew up together, and losing him like that was just _devastating_. So, I just wanted to thank you for keeping him safe and for bringing him back. Thank you.”

Derek blinks, taken aback for the moment by the sheer amount of gratitude in the boy’s voice. “He talked about you too,” he says for lack of better words.

Scott perks up, looking pleased by the news. “Yeah?”

He nods. Looking at the boy before him now, Derek feels almost like he cheated because he already knows _so much_ about him. He knows about the intimate moments after Scott’s transformation when his own best friend refused to speak to him. He knows the words Scott used to plead his case to Stiles. He knows more mundane things like his favourite activities and the kinds of snacks he used to sneak from the kitchen. They had all just been stories before, but now that he has a face to put to the name, he feels like he’s known the boy for far longer than a mere day.

“What kind of stories did he tell you about me?” Scott asks.

Going through the stories Stiles had told him, he tries to pick one that isn’t too personal or intrusive. “He told me about how you scared yourself trying to read a ghost story by yourself once,” he offers.

Scott lets out a laugh. “Seriously? He told you about that? That’s so not cool. He’s not supposed to go around telling people about how I almost wet myself.”

Derek arches a brow, trying to hide his amusement. “Well, he didn’t mention _that_ part…”

\--

Later that afternoon, the pack has a debriefing session with Scott retelling the tale of Beacon Hills. At the mention of Gerard’s name, Allison speaks up, “Gerard…of the Argent clan?”

Scott blinks in surprise. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

She looks away with clenched fists and doesn’t reply.

“Gerard is the one in charge, but his daughter, Kate, is normally the one who leads the attacks on the villages and towns around here,” Scott continues. “She’s the one who uses the mountain ash to trap Strains in their homes. I don’t think she’s actually a magic user, but she knows how to use mountain ash.”

Derek crosses his arms and leans back against the tree he’s sitting in front of and asks, “And just what do you plan on doing about all this? Are you planning on fighting the Purgers? After you’ve already lost once before?”

“I don’t want to, but I have to try,” Scott retorts tightly. “My mom’s still there and it’s still my home.”

“And you want our help,” Derek says, refusing to let any sympathy he may feel for the boy cloud his judgment.

Scott nods. “So will you?”

Everyone turns to him and waits.

He frowns and gets up. “I need to think about it.”

\--

Derek wants nothing more than to go on a run to clear his mind, but doesn’t. It’s too dangerous with Purgers lurking around in the area. Somehow, the forests here are even quieter than the ones up north. Not only the animals, but the trees themselves seem to be holding their breaths and waiting for something. The tense silence doesn’t help him think at all.

On the one hand, he wants to help reclaim Stiles’ home, but on the other, he doesn’t want to risk his pack, not after having been through so much to get them this far. If they go against the Argents, there will be casualties, and he’s not certain he’s willing to make that sacrifice.

He wishes he didn’t have to be the one to make the decision. What right did he have to put people’s lives at risk?

There are footsteps approaching him and he doesn’t need to look up to see who it is.

“We don’t have to do this,” Stiles says, standing in front of him. “We can just keep moving. We can just go somewhere else.”

“Can we really?” he asks, skeptical.

“Look, if this is about the promise you made me,” Stiles starts.

“It’s not just that,” Derek interrupts. “There’ll be Purgers no matter where we go—and Beacon Hills is your home.”

“Home is where you make it. It’s something you get to choose,” Stiles tells him. “Lydia says home is just a place where you’ve shared the most positive experiences with people you love, and once a new place has accumulated more positive experiences, it becomes your new home. There were numbers involved in her calculation too, putting values to good and bad experiences and whatnot, but I won’t go into that.”

He scoffs. “That sounds like something she’d say.”

“There’s no ‘home’ left in Beacon Hills for me, or, at least not very much of it. I’m pretty sure the bad outweigh the good right now at Beacon Hills. As far as I’m concerned, ‘home’ can be anywhere so long as the people are there, and the people at Beacon Hills… My dad’s gone, Derek,” he manages to choke out, “and so is everyone else I used to know.”

“And Scott?”

“Well, he’s not there either. He’s _here_. Don’t get me wrong, just the fact that I get to see him again, I can’t even begin to tell you how happy I am about that. I love him like a brother and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to help him get his mom back. And I want to help him in any way I can, he understands this, but to join his war…”

“So do you think we should fight for Beacon Hills at all?” Derek asks.

“I don’t know,” Stiles answers. “A part of me wants to because my dad’s there. All the memories I have of him are there. That was his town. But a part of me kind of wants just to keep running—to take Scott and his mom with us and run. I was talking to the others, there are mixed opinions, but they all want to know what you think.”

He furrows his brows. “Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’?” Stiles huffs in exasperation. “Because you’re pack to us as much as we’re pack to you. We all chose to be here, remember? Either we’re all doing this or none of us are—even Allison. So have you come to any kind of decision at all?”

Derek shakes his head.

Stiles holds out his arm. “C’mon then. Let’s head back to the others. They’re still talking about it. Maybe you’ll be able to think better with some noise. All this silence can’t be good for you.”

Without hesitation, he reaches out and takes the offered hand.

\--

He can hear the group deep in discussion even before they arrive.

“We should just leave and find another place. There’s enough of us—even if it’s just us—to start our own town. We have everything we need,” Erica says.

“Even if we leave and go somewhere else, the Purgers are just going to continue spreading if no one stops them,” Allison argues. “We should take them out here and now.”

“But why us? Why can’t someone else do it?” Jackson asks. “What makes you think we can take them out when everyone else has failed?”

“And even if we take them out, who’s to say we won’t get attacked by more Purgers, maybe from a different clan?” Isaac points out.

“Well, we run that risk no matter where we go,” Boyd says.

“You guys,” Lydia cuts in, “if the Purgers really are planning on spreading their power, then there won’t be anywhere safe left to go. Once they take over this area, they’ll likely reconnect with their clan up north and continue spreading upwards. If we go east, we’ll die. The land is barren and the water’s poison. There’s nothing there for us and we’ll never make it to the other coast. Our only chance would be to take a gamble and go further south, but there’s no guarantee that things will be any better there.”

“So either way, we’ll end up going against the Purgers eventually,” Danny concludes grimly.

Lydia sighs, “It seems that way. It’s just a matter of choosing when and where.”

“Wouldn’t it make sense to do it now? We have help. There are other Strain villages in the area that haven’t been purged yet, and Scott’s familiar with the terrain and the town. I’m sure we’ll be able to catch them off guard,” Allison presses.

“Wouldn’t we be able to better defend something we build ourselves?” Isaac suggests.

“That’s only assuming we manage to build it at all,” Danny says. “I doubt the Purgers will give us time to plan and build an entire town if they catch even rumours about what we’re doing.”

“What do you think, Derek?” Erica asks, looking over in his direction. “Should we fight now or later? It sounds like we’re screwed either way.”

That’s exactly what it sounds like, he doesn’t say out loud.

With all eyes on him, he stares at his feet in thought. “We’re in their territory. If we try anything big, we’ll be noticed. It’d be safer to just take them out now, before they realize we’re here at all. They’re disorganized up in the north without Gerard there to lead them. He’s the one we need to get rid of.

“It won’t be safe or easy,” he admits. “And there’s a lot of work to be done. Anyone who doesn’t want to do this is free to go. No one’s obligated to be here.”

No one moves.

Derek nods, trying not to let his uneasiness show. “First things first, we’ll need as much help as we can get. Stiles, go get Scott. We need to talk.”

\--

A week later, their camp has doubled in size and the pack seems to be fitting in well with everyone else at the settlement. Danny is spending a lot of time with one of the twins, Ethan, while the other twin is usually busy trying to pick fights with Jackson in front of Lydia. Allison and Isaac have struck up a strange friendship with Scott, though Derek isn’t sure if ‘friendship’ is the best word to describe what the three have. Erica and Boyd seem to be enjoying themselves teaching newcomers how to fight and defend themselves.

All the while, Stiles spends much of his time catching up with Scott or going around with Lydia (and occasionally Alan Deaton, a Human escapee from Beacon Hills and also Stiles’ original mentor in magic) strengthening the wards around the camp and planning out the magical front of their attack on the Argents.

Despite all this, Stiles and the pack always make their way back to him at night without fail, now, often with the addition of Scott.

Derek still isn’t entirely sure how he feels about Scott. The boy clearly doesn’t belong on a battlefield. In spite of everything he’s seen the Purgers do, he’s still reluctance towards fighting. It’s not something he can fault the boy on, but it’s still frustrating when there’s so much at stake.

“I know it has to be done. Like, I know we don’t have a choice,” Scott tells him one day during their training session, “but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Nobody likes it,” Derek says. “But just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean you get to slack off. Your life or other’s lives could depend on how well you fight, so claws out and let’s try that again.”

\--

A few days before their attack, he’s scouting the area by Beacon Hills when he catches a whiff of a scent that causes him to stop dead in his tracks.

That smell of wildflowers and wolfsbane…

Beside him, Scott stiffens as well. “It’s Kate. She’s the one I was talking about—Gerard’s daughter? I remember Stiles’ dad talking about how she burnt down a house with an entire family of Strains in it once. I think the house is actually pretty close to here. Those Strains never did anything, just mostly kept to themselves, but she still—”

Derek takes a step back, heart thumping wildly in his chest.

“Derek? Are you okay?” Scott asks, worried.

He takes another step back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost at the end! Only 2 (max. 3) chapters left to go! Thanks for sticking around! <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hello, boy.”

His Strain is fighting to take over, to track down the owner of that terrible scent, and to seek blood and vengeance on this person who had done him so much wrong and caused him so much pain.

Taking the hint, Scott quickly turns around and leads him back to the camp where they pass Stiles with Deaton, carving new wards into the trees. Upon seeing them, Stiles immediately puts his knife away and excuses himself to follow them. “Derek? Scott, what happened?”

Derek continues walking, paying no attention to anything other than his own footsteps, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the next.

He remembers.

The memories flood his system, forcing out all other thoughts.

His Day Zero.

That beautiful day in the early spring. It had just stopped raining and he decided to take advantage of the weather and ventured out to go scout the area—their territory—for intruders, as usual.

He remembers running into that woman in the woods and smelling the wolfsbane on her. She had been standing downwind and by the time he realized what had happened, she had already seen him. He knew at once that she was a Purger—a threat. His immediate instinct told him to run, but he didn’t want to risk leading her straight to the pack. They had strict protocols in place for a reason.

So he stood there, frozen, watching the Purger warily, ready to defend himself. But instead of attacking him or even looking the least bit frightened, she merely smiled and said, “Hello, boy. I’m afraid I’m a little lost. Could you point me to the nearest village?”

Confused by her inaction, he cautiously pointed towards the woods. Without a word, she turned around and disappeared from sight. Immediately afterwards, he took off in the opposite direction, taking the long, winding detour the pack had planned out in case such an occasion were to arise.

“Derek, is something wrong?” his mother asked him the moment he returned home.

“There was a lone Purger,” he told her, his heart still racing with wariness and panic.

“A lone Purger? That’s rare,” Uncle Peter noted, looking up from his book.

“Are you alright, son?” his father asked, checking him over for wounds.

He nodded. “I’m fine. She didn’t do anything. She asked where the nearest town was and left.”

His grandmother furrowed her brows in suspicion. “Did you do as we taught you?”

Derek nodded again and asked, “Will it be enough? To keep them away?”

“Humans can’t possibly track us from so far away,” Uncle Peter reassured him. “Their senses are lacking in certain departments. We should be fine, especially if you took the long way back.”

Wrapping an arm around him, his mother led him down the hall. “Why don’t you go clean yourself up? Your father and Uncle Peter will go out to make sure everything’s alright.”

Obediently, he made his way to his room only to find Cora and Laura standing in the hall, having obviously been listening in on the conversation. “It’s not your fault, Derek,” Laura immediately asserted. “It could’ve happened to any of us.”

“Derek, they can’t get us here, right?” Cora asked him.

“I think we’re safe,” he told her, combing her hair with his fingers. “Dad and Uncle Peter are out there now. They’ll make sure no one finds us.”

Despite the adults’ reassurances, Derek had a hard time getting to sleep that night. Every time he closed his eyes, the scent of wildflowers and wolfsbane filled his nose and all he could see were the cool and calculating eyes of the Purger. There was dread building in his guts and all he could do was remind himself that the Purger was Human. Their cruelty may seem limitless at times, but their senses most definitely were not.

By the next day, everything appeared to have gone back to normal.

“Laura, go patrol with Derek,” his mother said after their afternoon meal.

“What?” Laura protested. “But I thought it was Uncle Peter’s turn today!”

“It _would_ be, but I distinctly remember you losing our last bet when we wagered our patrol shifts,” Uncle Peter replied breezily, helping himself to seconds.

Laura frowned. “But you cheated!”

“Cheating implies the establishment of rules, which, might I remind you, there were none,” Uncle Peter said, flashing her a smug grin causing Cora to laugh at her older sister’s plight.

From what he recalled, their bet had been to see who the faster deer hunter was. Apparently, Peter had already laid out traps the day before, and thus, was able to bring his kill back mere minutes after their contest started.

“You should’ve known better than to make bets with Peter,” their father said, his smile giving away his amusement.

With a defeated sigh, Laura got up and ruffled Cora’s hair, earning her a yelp of protest. She smirked in reply and nodded towards him. “Come on, little bro, let’s go.”

“Be careful, you two,” their mother called after them.

They went about their usual patrol route, scanning the parameters for unfamiliar scents and traces of intruders. Everything appeared in order until they neared their house and a dull but constant roar could be heard. Soon, it was followed by the smell of smoke.

His eyes widened. “Laura! The house!”

The two raced back only to see Purgers standing in front of the burning structure. Laura immediately grabbed him by the arm and veered off to the side to hide behind a dense patch of bushes nearby. “But how—?” she whispered.

He could barely hear her words over the roars of the fire and the pounding of his heart. Among the Purgers, he could see a bound and beaten figure. And he saw the woman from yesterday, standing there with a satisfied grin on her lips. “Good job, I guess your kind are good for something every now and then.”

“Please,” the bound Strain pleaded, “you said you’d free my family if I did this for you.”

The Purgers laughed.

“Oh, we freed them,” the woman said. “Freed them from their miserable lives.”

At that, the Strain fell to his knees. “No, but you promised—”

“We promised to free them and we did. There’s no place for monsters like you in this world,” one of the men spat.

Head dipped in defeat, the Strain glanced over towards the brushes they were hiding in and said in a broken voice, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” as the woman took out a knife.

Laura pulled him in close and shielded his eyes, but he could still hear the cut being made and the final gasp of the Strain who had doomed his family. He could still hear the grunts of the Purgers as they tossed the body into the flames.

He could still hear the distaste in the woman’s voice as she said, “Good riddance.”

The two of them held each other close, out of sight even as the fire began dying down, and satisfied with their work, the Purgers finally took their leave. They remained there for what felt like ages until Laura got up and pulled him along, her movements stiff. There were tears running down her face even as she tried to muster up the confidence she didn’t have. “We…we need to go check. Maybe they’re okay. Maybe they found somewhere to hide. A-and if not,” she hesitated, “we’ll need to gather supplies and leave.”

Not knowing what else to do, Derek followed her lead, stepping past the circle of mountain ash that surrounded their home, broken when the Purgers threw the Strain’s corpse into the flames. Their home was now nothing more than a burnt shell of a house. The exterior walls managed to remain standing, though the insides were all licked black by the flames. The interior had turned into nothing more than ashes. There were no traces of the kitchen or the living room—no traces of the lives they lived mere hours ago.

Laura made her way over to the doorway that led underground, nothing more than a hole in a blackened wall now. Derek turned around when he heard her breath hitch. She was just standing at the doorway and staring down into the basement. “Laura?” he asked, fearful of her reply.

She wiped her eyes with her sleeves and turned around, shaking head. “Supplies,” she choked out. “We’ll need supplies. We can’t stay here.”

That’s when it hit him. His throat felt constricted and his eyes were burning from the smoke and tears.

His family was gone.

His home was gone.

And it was all because he ran into that Purger.

“Derek, listen to me. No one could’ve known. It’s _not_ your fault,” Laura snapped, as though reading his mind. “Stop thinking about it and help me look for supplies in case they come back. We need to go.”

“But who’s going to give them a proper burial? Someone needs to bury them, Laura,” he yelled, pointing towards the doorway.

Before he could make his way over towards the basement, Laura was standing in front of him, blocking his path with fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. “Don’t! We don’t have time for this, Derek! We can’t—we can’t bury them. We have to go.”

“We can’t just leave them there!”

“ _We have to!_ ” she snarled, her fangs growing and her eyes bleeding red.

He snapped his jaws shut with an audible click, stunned.

“I need you here with me right now, okay?” Then in a softer voice, she added, “They’re gone and I can’t do this alone, Derek.”

Hearing his sister’s plea, he nodded, shoulders sagging apologetically.

He forced his limbs into action, carefully keeping mind blank. In the end, all the managed to retrieve was an old chest that had belonged to their grandmother. There wasn’t very much in it save for a few pieces of jewellery and one of her journals, which had miraculously survived the heat. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

They dug up their emergency food supply that their mother had always insisted on keeping stocked, and they fled. They ran as far as their weary limbs would carry them and slept, curled up together in the forest that night, their exhaustion finally catching up with them.

In the morning, he woke to his sister shaking him by the shoulders and calling his name. For a moment, he forgot and opened his eyes in annoyance, ready to tell her off. But then he saw the trees and the forest floor beneath him and it all came rushing back to him, sweeping over him like a cold wave. Laura immediately pulled him into a hug and they remained that way until the sun was high in the sky and they had no choice but to continue on.

They didn’t run that day, their hearts and their feet heavy with grief. They took comfort in each other’s presence—in the fact that at least they weren’t truly on their own.

“What do we do now, Laura?” he asked her that night, wishing his voice didn’t sound so small and uncertain.

“We’re pack, Derek, and pack take care of each other. Even if pack means just the two of us,” Laura told him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of us, little bro.”

\--

That’s what she said, and she kept that promise for as long as she could. Three years after the fire, they were trying to make their way through a particularly quiet forest when it happened. Their traps weren’t catching anything because there weren’t any animals around. With no towns or villages nearby, their other goods were as good as worthless to them.

Seeing that they were running low on food, Laura shook him awake in the morning and said, “Stay here and watch our stuff, would you? I’m gonna go get us something to eat.”

Derek rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up. “You want me to go instead?”

She shook her head. “No, I’ll do it. I’m the better hunter anyway,” she said, lips curling into a soft smile. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Alright. Be careful.” He nodded and propped himself up against a tree to make himself comfortable, slipping back into a light doze.

It wasn’t until the sun was high in the sky that Derek gathered up their things and went out to look for her, tracking her scent through the trees, picking up his pace when it began mixing with the smell of blood and Strains. He found her on the ground, motionless and cold. Her blood painted her pale, clammy skin and the ground around her. “Laura?”

All he heard was silence. He couldn’t hear her heartbeat or her breathing. She just lay there—her lips blue and her blank eyes stared unseeingly back at him. He didn’t understand how she could suddenly be so still when just earlier, they had talked.

Derek fell to his knees next to her and pulled her cold, lifeless body close. “Please don’t do this, don’t leave me on my own. I need you here with me, Laura. I can’t do this alone.”

\--

Stiles finds him curled up against a tree in his full Strain form. He doesn’t remember shucking off his clothes or shifting, but he knows it happened at some point. Emotions were simpler in his full Strain form, allowing him to concentrate on his grief.

The boy approaches him, his footsteps loud in those worn out boots that are still a little too big for him. He sits in front of him, edging closer until his back brushes against Derek’s muzzle and when he meets no resistance, he scoots further back until he has Derek curled around him. “Scott told me what happened,” he says.

Derek doesn’t react. There’s no doubt that Stiles has put two and two together and come up with a general understanding of what happened, but he’s not ready to tell the full story yet. He wishes he had even half the resilience and bravery Stiles has, but he doesn’t and the memories of his Day Zero and Laura’s death still make him want to hide from the world until the pain fades. It’s been years but the wounds still feel fresh.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says lightly. “I know you’ll tell me, but not today. And I know you’ll go back to training the newcomers and go scouting the area with Scott. I know you’ll be okay again, just not today. You don’t have to be anything today, Derek. And that’s okay.”

Grateful and warmed by the boy’s words, he lifts his head and licks Stiles’ face before plopping his head back down in his lap, exhausted by the barrage of memories that leave him exposed and vulnerable. And strange enough, he finds himself feeling safe curled around this Human—safer than he’s felt in a long time now.

He doesn’t want to go into this fight. The fear and dread’s been building up inside him since they arrived at this place and announced their intentions. He doesn’t want to lose his pack—not again. But at this point, he doesn’t have a choice.

\--

When the day of the attack finally comes, Derek takes his time packing up in the morning while everyone starts to gather at the centre of the camp. He rolls up the bear pelt and puts it away. There’s barely any trace of the dog’s scent left on it, but it does smell like campfires and pack, and that’s enough to bring him comfort when he needs it.  

He gets up and makes his way to where everyone is waiting and takes stock of everything they have at their disposal. There are Strains, New Strains, New Humans, and Humans alike are all standing at attention, tense and nervous, but ready for battle. Then there’s his pack, despite the anxiety he can smell off of them, they’re poised and confident in a way that none of the others are. He stands a little straighter with pride as he delivers the instructions one last time, explaining why their best chance at victory is a night battle and why they can’t adopt siege tactics for lack of manpower and an abundance of external threats.

Glancing over at his pack, he tries not to think about the possibility of never seeing them again.

The plan is a simple one: have the archers kill the guards and create panic and chaos while humans go and break the circles of mountain ash. Luckily, with Beacon Hills being a walled town with a single entrance, it leaves them with all too many blind spots to exploit. The Purgers will be quick to regroup so they’ll have to take advantage of the momentary disorder to get in the town and launch their attack before a funnel effect can take place where, in a worst case scenario, they’ll get taken out one by one.

“There’s no guarantee that you or any of us will make it out of this alive, so if you have something to say or things to do, now’s probably the best time to do it. And anyone who wants to leave, this is your last chance,” Scott concludes as Derek steps back. “If you choose to stay and fight, we’ll meet back here at sundown.”

As the crowd breaks away into murmurs, Derek retreats back towards the pack while Scott stays behind to deal with questions and comments.

“I wish you’d stop looking at us like that,” Lydia chides with a disapproving frown.

He arches a brow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about to apologize,” Lydia says, “or like you’re already in mourning.”

“We're here because we want to be. We belong here,” Danny says, standing next to Ethan.

“We’re going tonight and nothing's gonna make us change our minds now,” Jackson adds, his arms wrapped around Lydia in a rare display of open affection.

Derek scoffs and crosses his arms. “I know that. I’m not here to tell you what to do. I said we’d make it to Beacon Hills and here we are.” Upon seeing the pack smiling back at him, he waves them off. “Shut up and go get ready.”

Before leaving, Isaac walks over and tells him, “I’m glad, you know, that I came with you and Stiles. If given the choice, I wouldn’t have changed a thing—except for getting paralyzed by Jackson. That really sucked.”

“It’s the same with us,” Boyd says.

Erica grins and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “We’re glad we’re here.” Then she turns to the two. “C’mon, boys, let’s make sure the newbies are still there.”

Allison approaches him. “I know I haven’t been in the group for very long, but thank you—for letting me be part of this.”

“Our goals lined up,” Derek reasons.

“Yeah, they did. They still do. Let’s try to get out of this alive,” she says, smiling. It’s soft and genuine with her dimples showing. Allison gives him a final nod before going off to help the archers prepare.

Left alone with Stiles, the two of them head towards the edge of the camp where the boy can finally speak without hesitation. With the influx of new recruits to the camp, Stiles has mostly reverted back to relying on gestures and facial expressions to convey his messages.

“They’re right, you know?”

Derek frowns. “About what?”

“You look as though you’ve already lost us,” Stiles says, reflexively taking his hand and giving it a soft squeeze. “Have a little faith, Derek. We’re the ones instigating this. We know what we’re doing. We’re not helpless.”

No, they’re not helpless, he repeats to himself—unlike his family. It brings him a little comfort to know that there’ll be a difference at least, however small. “I know,” Derek mutters. But even so, it feels like he’s done nothing but lead them all to their graves.

Stiles grins. “I mean, we definitely have the upper hand in terms of magic, at least. They don’t have any magic users, we’ve got three. _And_ , we’ve got our magic sticks,” he says, pulling out a branch inscribed with a short spell with his free hand. It had been Lydia’s idea as a solution to Stiles’ silence.

“Stop waving that stick around before you set the forest on fire and give our position away,” Derek tells him.

“You’re just jealous because you can’t use one,” the boy retorts.

Rolling his eyes, he gives Stiles’ head a light shove.

He refuses to entertain the idea of ever losing this—of ever losing the boy that brought him so much.

The distraction was effective while it lasted, but his mind quickly takes their moment of silence to wander back to the impending battle. “I’m just…” he trails off with a vague wave, not wanting to admit to his fears out loud.

Stiles nods, giving him an understanding nudge. “Yeah, me too. I think it’s natural to be scared at a time like this, even if you’re not Human. I’m glad I’m here though. Glad I followed you that day in the woods. I mean, thanks to you, I got to meet everyone and now, I’m back here with Scott. If I had to choose again, I’d choose to follow you every time,” Stiles tells him, his voice sincere. He glances over. “Do you regret it?”

Derek shakes his head. He has a lot of regrets, but this isn’t one of them. Or, at least not yet. If anything, he’s proud for having created such a strong pack. There's that unreadable expression on Stiles’ face again. Derek frowns. “What?”

“Nothing. I’ve just been trying to think of a word. You get this look sometimes, and I’ve been trying to figure out how to describe it.” Stiles smiles and shakes his head. “When you were talking about helping Isaac. When you let Lydia and them come with us. When you helped Allison bury her dad…that first day in the woods. You just looked so… _human_.”

He remembers that day. He remembers seeing that roughed up boy with the cut up feet and a rope around his neck—the boy who smiled at him despite the pain and fear.

“Human?” he asks, skeptical.

“Human. Not like, ‘soft, squishy, two arms and legs’ Human,” Stiles clarifies, turning to him. “That day in the woods, you just looked really…kind, I guess. You somehow looked more human than anyone I’d ever come across.”

“Stiles…” Derek lifts his gaze, surprised at their sudden proximity, but he doesn’t back away from it. He frowns but doesn’t let go of the boy’s hand. “Stiles, we shouldn’t.”

Undaunted, Stiles remains where he is, their noses nearly touching. “Why not?” he breathes.

He looks at the boy. This warm, brave, reckless Human boy with the large doe eyes and fidgety hands, who’s always there—who he doesn’t want to imagine life without. But as right as it feels, the list of reasons ‘why not’ in his head is endless.

I’m not enough, his mind provides.

I’m weak.

I’m broken.

I’m _afraid_ …

“Because there’s a chance that we’ll both die by the end of the night,” Derek ends up saying instead, reaching up and running a finger lightly over Stiles’ throat.

“Isn’t that all the more reason to do this? I know what I want, and I don’t want to go into this wondering if it’s just me, Derek. It’d be very distracting,” Stiles reasons.

Derek gives in.

He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe it’s the thought of dying or of Stiles dying that makes him ignore all the voices warning him against getting attached, or maybe it’s because he’s finally able to admit to himself that he’s attached to the boy and has been for a while now. Stiles has seen him at his best and worst and if the boy still wants him despite everything, he’s not going to second guess his judgment—he’s come to respect Stiles too much to do that.

Instead of shoving the boy away like he usually does when he loses an argument, Derek closes the gap between them with a chaste kiss. “It’s not just you,” he murmurs, touching their foreheads together. “It’s not just you.”

“Then…”

“Tomorrow. We’ll figure this out tomorrow—if we’re still alive by then,” he promises.

Stiles smiles and leans in for another kiss. “Okay…okay, tomorrow then. You can bet I’ll do everything I can to keep you alive, but you have to try too, alright? ‘cause I’m not okay, you know, with the idea of losing you.”

Derek gives a faint nod. “Yeah, okay.”

\--

As the sun begins to set, they’re all standing around, waiting for nightfall. The tension is thick and suffocating, but there’s no helping it. The pack’s standing off to the side, huddled close together with the twins and Scott joining in. Derek can’t help wondering when those three managed to sneak under his radar.

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to say goodbye to them, but he doesn’t want to leave so many things unspoken. He doesn’t know how to convey everything in a single message—the mixture of pride, respect, and affection that he feels for each and every single one of them.

Stiles shoots him an expectant look.

They’re going to be heading into battle soon and he can’t let their last moment together be one of silence. “Are you all ready?” Derek asks quietly, tugging at the sleeve of his leather jacket. If this is going to be his final fight, he wants to go into it wearing the jacket Laura had gotten for him.

The group nods. He can smell the nervousness off of them.

“Right,” Derek mutters, unsure of how to continue. He tries to imagine what Laura or his mother would say in such a situation. “We’ll be going soon,” he starts again, “and chances are, some of us—maybe none of us will make it out alive. But while we’re out there, make sure you have each other’s backs. Remember that we’re pack, and pack take care of each other.” Then he looks over at Scott and the twins who are looking around sheepishly and adds, “And I guess that includes you three as well.”

Scott nods his thanks, glancing over at Stiles then Allison and grins excitedly.

From Lydia’s side, Allison smiles back, unguarded. Scott seems to have that effect on her. Erica catches this and starts teasing the two while elbowing for Isaac to join in. The pack start to banter back and forth and the tension dissipates after that. For a moment, it feels just like any other night.

The skies have turned almost completely black when Deaton approaches them. “It’s time.”

Derek nods and takes a long, final look at his pack, wanting to etch each of their faces into his memory. There’s no turning back now. His gaze lingers when he reaches Stiles. The boy returns the look and gives him a solemn nod.

Tomorrow, he reminds himself; tomorrow.

“Let’s go.”

\--

They march through the woods and get themselves into position. Derek can hear his heart pounding in his ears as he waits for the last of the people to get into place. Getting the signal from the Humans, he nods to the magic users who immediately start lighting the archers’ arrows. He catches Allison’s sharp, golden eyes and gestures for her to fire.

She arches the bow and takes down one of the guards in the lookout tower closest to her, then another.

In the town, he can immediately hear alarms being sounded as the second round of arrows are fired. The Humans use the distraction to get in close to break the lines of mountain ash surrounding the town.

The archers fire again.

Plumes of smoke start rising from Beacon Hills.

The Strains all surge forward and the last of the circles are broken, leaving only the one at the entrance intact. On the other side of the entrance, the Purgers have started regrouping, shooting down the Human in front, but it’s too late and the last line of mountain ash disappears and the Strains start pouring through.

Up near the front, the man next to Derek falls and disappears as he’s hit with an arrow. He doesn’t turn his head to glance back. The man’s lost. There’s no chance of the first few Strains surviving the hits—not until they can get the Purgers’ mix of wolfsbane to the magic users.

Inside the walls of the town, he can see that a few of the buildings have caught on fire. Many of the Purgers have armed themselves and are standing together, firing into the hoard of Strains and New Humans entering the town. Some of them have even circled themselves with mountain ash. Neither of the leaders can be seen anywhere. He would almost be disappointed if they had been killed in the barrage of arrows.

Derek’s attention is momentarily drawn to the side, where a few of the Purgers running and breaking circles of mountain ash on the ground. Terrible growls emerge from the holes the mountain ash outlined and rogue Strains leap out. His eyes widen. None of them had expected this.

The rogues closest to the Purgers immediately lash out at their captors, eagerly tearing them apart before turning their crazed stares towards the chaos around them. Some of them flee while others run and join the fight, attacking randomly without prejudice.

Reaching the group of Purgers, Derek reaches out and sinks his claws into flesh while the Strain next to him falls. The hoard scatter and break out into smaller fights. In the distance, he can hear guns going off and wonders if that’s Stiles or a Purger attacking. He catches a glimpse of Erica and Boyd taking down a Purger in the distance, and Scott emerging from one of the houses with a dark-haired woman behind him.

Before he can track down the others, out of nowhere, a rogue attacks him from the side, running its claws down his side. He snarls and wrestles with the Strain, trying to gain the upper hand. Suddenly, the rogue’s head gets pulled back.

Not wasting the opportunity, he reaches out and take a swipe at the rogue’s throat, shredding it to pieces. The rogue doesn’t make a sound as it falls dead. Derek looks up to see Jackson, covered in soot from the smoke and ashes and nods his thanks.

Jackson shrugs and pulls him up then disappears, throwing himself back into the fray.

Derek manages to take down another Purger before a particular smell hits him. Even amidst the fire and blood, it’s unmistakable.

Wildflowers and wolfsbane.

He turns around and sees the woman—the same woman who destroyed his life all those years ago.

She smirks and cocks the shotgun in her hands. “Hello, boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the super slow update, but here it is! Hopefully I won't take another month to get the next bit up. Enjoy!


	11. Chapter 11 & Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had all meant _nothing_.

“Hello, boy.”

Those two words send shivers down his spine and sends his Strain into a frenzy. He stares into the face of the person who singlehandedly brought about his Day Zero and sees that they are blank. There’s no recognition behind them—no sign that she remembers the house that was once inhabited by a family of Strains. There’s no sign of her remembering how she burnt it to the ground all those years ago.

To her, he’s just another Strain.

His parents, his grandmother, Cora, Uncle Peter…

Their deaths were nothing more than a game to her.

Something in his chest clenches tightly and he inhales sharply, forcing himself to remain impassive. His family had been nothing more than a conquest—a notch on her gun—one not even worth remembering.

It had all meant _nothing_.

Disappointment, humiliation and anger well up inside him. He takes another deep breath, trying to convince himself to remain calm. Losing control would only result in his death now. He wonders if his death would just be as insignificant to the woman as his family’s had been.

“You’re a handsome one, aren’t you?” Kate incites. “For a Strain.”

He snarls and crouches, ready to strike.

“Oh, look like I found myself a fighter.” She smirks and takes a step back, throwing a circle of mountain ash around her. Raising her gun, she pulls the trigger.

Derek ducks to the side and flinches wen the bullet hits him in the arm. The wound immediately throbs as the wolfsbane enters his system.

Kate cocks her gun and takes aim again.

Suddenly, there’s a loud pop from behind and Kate jerks back, her gun flying out of her hands and onto the ground. She lets out a scream and clutches at her shoulder, the blood soaking through her clothes.

He turns his head to see Stiles standing there with his gun, his normally animated hands calm and steady. The boy has scratches and cuts on him along with a few patches of red on his clothes, but his eyes are focused and his heart rate quickened but strong.

The three of them are at a stalemate, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

Kate scowls. She glances at her gun on the ground then back over to Derek and Stiles, her eyes calculating. “A Human siding with a Strain,” she hisses in disdain. “You poor, misguided thing. You could’ve done the world so much good.” She pulls out a throwing knife and aims for the boy only to have it knocked away by Derek.

Ignoring the burning sensation in his arm, he keeps his eyes trained on the Purger. He won’t let her take away any more people away from him.

She lets out an irritated huff and sneers, “It must be handy to have a pet monster.”

Stiles reloads his gun.

Kate seems to make up her mind then and takes out her knives. Leaping out of the way when Stiles pulls the trigger, she makes her way towards Derek, determined to take down at least one more Strain.

Derek flexes his claws and rushes forward to meet her. He parries her first attack and dodges her second and knocks her back. Experienced as she is, he has the advantage when it comes to strength and speed. Watching her land on the ground, suddenly looking so very human, for a brief moment, he thinks about biting her and turning her into the very thing she hated most.

But before he can do anything, there’s a growl and a rogue appears from the side and jumps on her. Derek immediately positions himself between the Strain and Stiles, unable to tear his eyes from the sight of Kate’s flailing limbs and her screams as the rogue tears her apart.

Within moments, Kate’s body goes limp, and all he can do is watch as the rogue gets up and runs off to find another victim. Looking at her mauled corpse, he feels a pang of disappointment that it hadn’t been him to do the deed. As much as he wants to tell her “good riddance”—wants to spit it in her face, the words refuse to come out of his mouth.

All around them, the fighting is slowly dying off as the body count rises.

He looks out into the burning town and sees Allison standing over the body of an old man with Scott fighting off a Purger nearby. He sees Lydia crouched over Jackson while Danny and the twins stand guard.

There’s a hand on his arm. He turns to see Stiles there, exhausted but determined.  The boy takes out a handful of wolfsbane on a leaf and lights it on fire. He breathes in the smoke and feels the poison leave his system. “Thanks.”

Stiles grins.

Suddenly, he hears a cocking sound and pushes the boy out of the way. A sharp pain hits him in the back and he stumbles forward. Weakened from his earlier injury, the wolfsbane hits him harder than it had before and he struggles hard for breath.

“Derek!”

Turning around, he sees Kate’s gun in the hands of a child. The child spits thrice on the ground and mutters with learned disdain. “Filthy creature.”

His vision’s blurs and for a moment, he thinks it’s one of the village children standing there. Blinking the blurriness away, he can see that the child is no older than 15, brown eyes lit up with anger and hatred. He wonders if the child views him in the same light as he had viewed Kate and hesitates in his attack.

There’s a shot from behind him and he watches as the child falls to the ground. Derek turns back to Stiles who’s already let go of his gun and is fumbling to get more wolfsbane out. “It’s okay, Derek. You’ll be fine,” Stiles reassures him, his voice shaky and panicked.

“Stiles,” he rasps, feeling the poison spread.

Stiles shakes his head. “You’re not doing this. I’m not losing you too. C’mon, Derek. _Please._ We’re so close—”

Derek glances up at Stiles only to see a pair of golden eyes approaching from behind. 

He reaches out for the boy.

\--

When he comes to, he sees a ceiling above him and for a moment, he thinks he’s back at Allison’s cabin. Blinking the sleep away, he looks again only to have the unfamiliarity hit him. He tries to sit up only to collapse under his own weight. Falling back down onto the bedding, nothing more than a simple woven mat on the ground, he rolls onto his side to look around. He’s in an unfamiliar wooden hut. Alone.

Pushing himself into sitting position, it alarms him how weak he is. He raises his hands up to see them shaking, devoid of all strength. Eyes trailing further down, he finds himself wrapped in rags—makeshift bandages. He can’t ever recall a time when he’s needed to have his wounds dressed like this.

“It’s going to take a couple of days for you to get your strength back. You nearly died out there after getting all that wolfsbane in your system and that bite,” a voice says. “It drastically slowed down your healing abilities. You’ve been out for four days now. But then again, you’re lucky to even be alive”

Derek turns his head to see Deaton standing there with a basket of leaves and herbs. He wonders how the man had managed to get in undetected. Before he can ask, the memories come back to him. Kate. The child. The rogue. Stiles.

“I’m alive,” he rasps, this throat parched and scratchy.

The realization comes with no sense of relief, only anxiety and dread.

“Stiles. My pack. Where are they?” he asks Deaton. “Are they—”

Several questions run through his head at once.

Are they alright?

Are they hurt?

Are they _alive_?

Instead of answering, Deaton sets his basket down. “Before you get too excited, Derek, let’s change your dressings. Your wounds have mostly healed, but let’s not risk them getting infected.”

Panic flares in his mind.

If they aren’t here now, does that mean they’re gone?

Did he lose his entire pack?

Is he the only one left?

Pushing himself onto his feet despite Deaton’s warnings, he stumbles out of the hut. He’s momentarily blinded by the sunlight, but when his vision returns, the first thing he sees is the devastation around him. There are houses that have been reduced to ashes and corpses of every kind strewn everywhere. The smell of smoke, blood and decay are enough to make him gag, but he breathes in, trying to hone in on the scent of his pack.

The trail leads him to another cabin. Derek stumbles through the door to see Lydia, sitting by an unconscious Jackson’s side, clutching his hand. He lets out the breath he’s been holding upon seeing part of his pack still alive and well. Behind Lydia, Danny, with his leg splinted and wrapped up, is sitting with Ethan and at once, Derek knows that Aiden’s gone.

The three of them look up. It’s clear from their reddened eyes that they’ve been crying. “Derek, you’re awake,” Lydia whispers. There’s relief in her voice. “We didn’t know if you’d make it.”

“You’re alright,” Derek breathes, studying their faces, lingering on the absence of the second twin.

“We lost Aiden,” Danny tells him, confirming what he had suspected, “and we don’t know when Jackson will wake up.”

Derek takes a deep breath to steady himself before asking, “What happened?”

“Aiden? It was a Purger. They got him too close to the heart. I couldn’t save him,” Lydia tells him, her voice trembling with unshed tears and weariness. She turns to Ethan and lowers her head. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” he says. He wonders how different life will be for Ethan now that he’s lost the one person he’s had by his side all his life—since before birth. Will it feel like a missing limb? Or will it feel like something else entirely?

Ethan shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.”

Swallowing hard, Derek looks over at Jackson’s prone form. The boy looks like he’s sleeping. “And Jackson?”

“A rogue snake Strain,” Lydia explains, rubbing her thumb over Jackson’s gently. “He’s fighting the poison.”

“Is this it?” he asks, scanning the room.

Is this all that’s left of the pack?

Lydia lowers her eyes again and shakes her head. She spares a glance over to Jackson before standing up. From the way she’s favouring her right side, she clearly didn’t escape the battle unscathed. “Come get me if he wakes up,” she tells Danny.

With his arm wrapped around Ethan, Danny nods.

She wraps Derek’s arm around her shoulder to help support his weight and leads him out of the hut and asks, “How much do you remember?”

“I don’t know. The last thing I remember is getting shot and then a rogue attacking Stiles.” He swallows hard and tries to calm his heartbeat. “Is he—?”

“He’s fine,” Lydia reassures him. “He woke up two days ago and wouldn’t leave your side. I had to knock him out to get him to rest. He’s sleeping somewhere right now. I’m pretty sure Scott’s watching over him. I thought we’d lost you two.” She tightens her grip on him. “When I found you, you were both unconscious and bleeding out.”

“You saved our lives,” Derek mutters. “Thank you.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t save you. That was mostly Stiles. He’s the one who managed to burn enough of the wolfsbane from your system to keep you alive until I could reach you.”

They stop in front of a hut near the edge of town. On the outside, the only thing that makes this cabin stand out are the wards that decorate the walls. From inside the building, he can hear only silence. He turns to Lydia in dread. “This is…”

Lydia eyes begin to water again. She shakes her head and refuses to say another word.

Entering the cabin, the smell of death and decay immediately hits him. Everything seems to stop for a moment. He lets his arm fall away from Lydia’s shoulders and stumbles forward.

Derek can feel his heart shattering at the sight before him. In the room lit only by torches, the four bodies lined on the floor are pale and unmoving. His breath stutters. He takes another step forward before collapsing onto his knees. Lydia’s immediately by his side, holding him steady.

He can see the claw marks that ended Erica and Boyd’s lives, and the cuts from knives and arrows that overwhelmed Allison and Aiden. They look strangely beautiful in their stillness—peaceful, almost.

His vision blurs, and it’s only when it starts trickling down his cheeks that he realizes he’s crying.

Derek doesn’t know how long he stays there, but he is snapped out of his trance when he hears footsteps and an erratic heartbeat approach. With only instincts guiding him, he gets up and turns around just in time to see Stiles appear in the doorway, breathing heavily, his arm in a sling, his other hand wrapped in bandages. Underneath all the layers of bandages, he can smell both fresh and dried blood. The boy must’ve agitated his wounds by running there.

Behind him, Scott and Isaac come into view mere moments after. “Stiles, you shouldn’t be moving around—”

The two of them stare at one another for a long moment. Then Stiles runs over and throws his bandaged arm around Derek’s neck, shoulders slumping in relief. “You’re okay. Oh thank god, you’re okay. I thought I’d lost you too.”

He returns the hug, breathing in the boy’s familiar, comforting scent. When he looks up, he sees the other three watching and nods, spreading his arms. Without hesitation, the other three join in.

This, Derek thinks; maybe he can rejoice in the fact that, at the very least, he still has _this_ part of his pack.

But another part of him wonders how he can truly rejoice while knowing his pack will forever be four short.

\--

Derek and Stiles get whisked away back into the hut he had originally come out of by Melissa, who turns out to be a force to be reckoned with, when she finds them a while later. With both of Stiles’ hands unavailable, they settle for lying next to each other, their shoulders touching.

“I wanted to get them to bring you the bear rug to rest on,” Stiles tells him, “you know, so that you’d wake up to something familiar, but they said that it might agitate your wounds. I was gonna get Isaac to try and sneak it in, but you’ve seen how Melissa can be.”

“She had Lydia knock you out,” Derek finishes.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

He lets out an amused huff.

Stiles nudges him. “Don’t laugh. I was doing it for you.”

“I appreciate the thought,” he replies dryly. Then, after a pause, Derek asks, “What happened that night?”

The boy turns his head. “You don’t remember?”

“Not really.” He remembers the child falling dead though, and the rogue, and he remembers seeing Allison and Aiden still alive—those are and forever will be his last memories of them, he realizes with a start. Were Erica and Boyd already gone by then? Was there anyone around to witness their last moments?

“What _do_ you remember?” Stiles asks, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“You shot the child,” he says.

“Yeah, I did.”

“And then there was a rogue.”

“You took the bite for me and went down pretty hard after that. But the rogue wouldn’t stop attacking. I don’t know, at some point, it broke my arm and got my side pretty good. But I managed to get a spell in and set it on fire. It ran away after that,” Stiles mutters.

“And your hand?”

“Oh, this? I was in a hurry and I only one hand to work with, so I burnt the wolfsbane in it. The burns aren’t too serious. It could’ve been worse. Melissa said there’ll probably be scars, but I get to keep all my fingers at least.”

Derek exhales, his mind churning with a mixture of guilt and relief. “You’re an idiot.”

“I wasn’t going to let you die—not if I could help it.”

“That’s my line,” he says, before thinking to himself that he wasn’t supposed to let any of them die.

As though reading his mind, Stiles shuffles closer. “Stop it. It’s not your fault.”

“Does it still hurt?” Derek asks, changing the subject. He’s not ready to hear those words yet.

When the boy doesn’t answer, he reaches over and grabs Stiles by the arm and begins draining the pain.

“You don’t have to—”

“Just let me. Please.”

Licking his lips nervously, Stiles asks, “Are you upset that I shot the kid?”

He thinks for a moment—remembers the coldness in the child’s eyes. “No,” he says, “I just wish you didn’t have to.”

“There are more of them, you know?” Stiles tells him. “Not too many, but they’re keeping them separated into small groups just in case. They’re like the children from the village. Some of them are too young to understand why, but they all hate us. I think Melissa was going to ask for your opinion on how to deal with them. What will you tell her?”

Derek frowns. He doesn’t want to entertain the idea of killing children. “They’re still young,” he starts slowly, uncertainty colouring his voice, “and they were taught to hate us, so maybe they can be taught tolerance. Maybe…”

There were so many maybes.

Maybe one day, they’ll remember this and scorn them.

Maybe one day, they’ll get their revenge.

“Maybe I’m being unrealistic,” he mutters.

“No, I think it’s a good idea,” Stiles says. “Maybe one day, they’ll see us as people rather than monsters.”

He decides that he likes that ‘maybe’ more.

\--

Scott pays them a visit the next day. Visits from the pack help Stiles from getting too antsy.

“Hey dude,” Stiles greets from where he’s sitting. Under Melissa’s instructions, he’s stretching his burnt hand while Derek drains the pain.

“How are you guys feeling? Mom and Deaton still won’t let you out?” Scott asks. He looks tired with shadows under his eyes and a heaviness to his voice.

Derek shakes his head. “They left very little room for argument.”

Chuckling, Scott gives a rueful shrug. “Well, you’re still hurt and most of the work out there involves hunting or heavy lifting. We were checking on the Humans that were bitten. Two of them went rogue, but the rest seem to be adjusting. We’re keeping an eye on them, though.”

“That’s good.”

“And we buried the last of the bodies today. All that’s left are…” Scott trails off, gaze falling onto his feet.

There’s a long moment of silence between them.

“I’m sorry about Allison, Scott,” Derek whispers.

“It wasn’t your fault. I’m glad you’re okay. That night, Allison…she died in my arms,” Scott tells him, his voice a strained whisper. “There was a Purger and I couldn’t get to her in time. I’m sorry I couldn’t save her.”

He frowns and shakes his head. “You have nothing to apologize for. Sometimes things just…happen. There’s nothing you could’ve done, Scott. Stop blaming yourself.”

“She got Gerard, you know? Allison got him,” Scott continues, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. “She got him in one shot. She was amazing! And then the next thing I knew, she was down. She was smiling when I got to her though. She kept telling me it was okay. ‘I’,” he took in a shuddery breath, “‘I got him, Scott,’ she said to me. ‘I got him like I said I would.’ And then she started crying. And she asked me, ‘So why don’t I feel any better?’ A-and I couldn’t answer her.”

“It’s not really something you can have an answer to,” Stiles reasons.

“But that was the last thing she said to me and I couldn’t answer her, Stiles! All I could do was hold her! I never thought I’d lose her like that. I just—I knew it was dangerous, but she was so strong. I didn’t think…out of all people… It’s not fair, Stiles. Why her? Why’d it have to be her?”

He watches as Stiles wraps his arm around his best friend, whispering soothing words to him. There’s a voice in his head telling him how easily he could be in Scott’s place right now—how easily he could’ve lost the chance to keep the promise he made that night. He glances over at Stiles and is overwhelmed by a sudden wave of gratefulness that they’re both still alive.

Later, after Melissa comes in and takes Scott back home, he turns to Stiles, his mind made up. He places a light kiss on the boy’s lips and tells him, “When I woke up here. I thought I’d lost you too. And just so you know, I wasn’t—” he pauses and corrects himself, “I’m not okay with the idea of losing you either.”

\--

With the help of Isaac, Danny, Ethan, and Scott, they bury the bodies two days later, after Derek recovers. Only the pack has gathered to watch the burial. The rest of the camp—the town—is busy rebuilding the houses and gathering food. They lower the bodies into the ground and place slabs of wood etched with runes on top of them to ward off scavengers. Derek feels hollow as he watches the four disappear underneath the dirt.

Stiles, Lydia and Jackson, still weak from the poison but awake, go to put up the grave markers after they’ve fill the graves in. “Wait,” Derek says.

The three stop and turn to him. “What is it?” Stiles asks, his voice tight.

Derek steps towards them and scratches a triangular spiral symbol into the wood. “In my family, this was the symbol for pack,” he explains. “When I lost them, I never thought I’d find another pack, but I was wrong. I don’t have the words to express how grateful I am to have met you.” He turns around to face the rest of his pack. “All of you. But, thank you. I couldn’t have hoped for a better pack.”

“We should be the ones thanking you for letting us come with you. Who knows where we’d be now without you,” Danny says.

Isaac nods, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Erica would hate it if she saw us crying like this, or maybe she’d be pointing and laughing.”

Jackson snorts. “She definitely would, except she’d be crying herself.”

“Aiden’s never liked dealing with weepy people,” Ethan mutters, smiling.

“Allison would want us to be happy that we got through this,” Lydia adds, patting Scott’s arm.

Scott nods, blinking his tears away. “Yeah, she would.”

“Do you think Boyd would’ve cried?” Isaac asks.

“I feel like he wouldn’t, despite Derek’s amazing speech. I never knew you could be so poetic, by the way.” Stiles sniffles loudly before giving Derek a teasing nudge.

The pack all turn to him, waiting for his reaction.

Derek rolls his eyes and wipes his muddied hands onto Stiles’ face.

Amidst the ensuing laughter, he could’ve sworn he heard impossible voices ringing as they laughed along.

\--

“I don’t understand. Why are you giving me this?” Derek asks, arching a brow at the badge in Melissa’s hand. He had just come back from a hunt with Scott and Isaac and was joining the rest of the pack for lunch. Beacon Hills will need all the supplies they can get while rebuilding and getting ready for the upcoming winter and he refuses to sit around and be idle now that he’s recovered. “This is your town. I’m not here to run it.”

“No, but it has come to my attention that a sheriff’s duty isn’t to lead a town but to uphold the law and justice,” Melissa tells him, with a nod to Lydia, who’s sitting a little ways away. “When Stiles’ father was around, he took care of both these things, but that’s not possible anymore, so we’ve decided to split it up. Beacon Hills will be led by several instead of one, and if there’s anyone suited for the role of Sheriff, it’s you.”

He frowns, still eyeing the badge. “Why me?”

“I’ve heard about how you led everyone into battle, Deaton’s seen it, and you should hear some of the things Scott says about you. You have the experience, and you have a group that respects and trusts you. Just ask them,” Melissa says, gesturing at the pack.

Scott and Isaac immediately voice their approval, “You should do it, Derek. Just accept it.”

“You’re going to end up doing exactly the same thing anyway, so you might as well have a title,” Jackson says.

“Jackson’s got a point,” Danny concedes, with Ethan nodding in agreement.

He glances over at Stiles, who grins and nods his approval.

“You helped save this town, Derek,” Lydia points out. “What’s holding you back?”

“I…” Derek trails off, unsure of how to answer.

“You and your group _are_ planning to stay, aren’t you?” Melissa asks.

Derek turns to see the pack’s eyes on him, awaiting his answer. He knows that if he decides to leave, they’ll follow. But where is there to go? Their goal had been Beacon Hills and here they are. And isn’t this what they fought so hard for? Why they lost four irreplaceable lives? For a place to call home?

“Yeah,” he says, accepting the sheriff badge, “we’re staying.”

It’s only after he says the words out loud that the realization hits him.

“We’re staying,” Derek repeats incredulously, looking over at his pack, his eyes catching Stiles’. “We made it.”

\--

 

**Epilogue:**

It’s fall when the houses are finally all rebuilt and there’s some semblance of normality to Beacon Hills again. Some of the younger Argent children are playing with other children from the town. They pay him no heed when he walks by. He’s just returned from a patrol and was on his way back to his cabin when he spots Stiles approaching him in his usual red hooded sweater and shoes that are still a little too big for him. There’s a familiar looking black bundle in his arms.

“Guess what I’ve got?” the boy asks. His voice is quieter than when they’re alone; it’s as though he’s afraid the wrong person will hear him speaking. It’s a start though.

Derek arches a brow and Stiles grins, unfolding the bundle revealing his leather jacket, washed and repaired. Eyes widening, he takes the jacket into his hands and inspects the repair work on it with reverence. “Who fixed it?”

Stiles huffs. “What do you mean ‘who fixed it’?”

“I mean I know it wasn’t you,” he says, amused.

“What? Why? It totally could’ve been me!” After a long, skeptical look from Derek, he throws his arms in the air and mutters “Oh my god” under his breath. “Fine. It was a couple of the older ladies, okay? Me and Lydia were gonna try and use magic to use magic to fix it because we figured you’d want this back. A couple of the ladies saw us and took it and fixed it themselves.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, throwing his jacket on, he instinctive curls his fingers around the too-long sleeve.

“Yeah, well, you should probably go thank them too. I mean, they’re the ones who did all the work,” Stiles concedes.

He nods. “I will. But first, there’s something I want to show you.” Then, without another word, he turns around and starts walking towards the gates. He doesn’t have to look back to know that the boy’s following him.

Beyond the town walls, the forest is as quiet as he remembers from his memories. The birds don’t chirp or sing like they do in his grandmother’s journal. But they’ve been silent for as long as he can remember. He wonders if that’ll ever change.

Behind him, he hears branches snapping loudly and feet stumbling. He turns around and arches a brow at Stiles who flashes him a sheepish grin. Rolling his eyes, he holds out a hand to the boy.

Reaching out, with the palm of his hands rough and discoloured from the healed burns, Stiles takes the offered hand.

They walk until they arrive at a burnt shell of a house. Derek takes a moment to study it a little closer, swallowing hard at the sight. He hasn’t been here since his Day Zero. Much of the house has been reclaimed by the woods since then. The smell of smoke no longer clings to the wood, and through the windows, he can see moss and plants colouring the inside of the house green.

The house isn’t as daunting as he thought it would be. It doesn’t loom over him like it does in his dreams. He leads Stiles up the stairs and to the door and, with his free hand, carves his pack’s symbol onto the door. The eroded wood gives way to his claws with no resistance. It’s something he and Laura never got the chance to do that day.

Stiles stares at the building in awe, taking a step closer to Derek. “What is this place?”

“This was my home,” Derek tells him, squeezing the boy’s hand, his voice soft.

He has a new home now.

Taking a deep breath, he begins, “It happened eight years ago…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! It's finished! Thanks for sticking around! I hope you all enjoyed this! <333

**Author's Note:**

> Author Notes: First Teen Wolf fic! Yay! I've been wanting to write an apocalypse fic for awhile now, especially after reading The Painted Bird by Kosinski (it's a dark and graphic WW2 novel and not recommended for anyone faint of heart. This won't be anywhere near that level but I liked the atmosphere and tone he set), so here it is! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Questions and comments are always welcomed!


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